SIX    FRENCH    POETS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


/i^  ^c^^^. 


'OKe^e-d^ 


SIX    FRENCH    POETS 


STUDIES    IN    CONTEMPORARY 
LITERATURE 


BY 


AMY   LOWELL 

AUTHOR   OF   "A   DOME  OF   MANY-COLOURED   GLASS" 
AND   "SWORD   BLADES  AND   POPPY  SEED" 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1920 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1915, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  November,  1915.     Reprinted 
May,  1916;  May,  1920. 


NorSnooTj  ^rrss 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Ma&i.,  U.S.A. 


•^ 


PREFACE 

In  the  Spring  of  19 14,  I  was  invited  to  deliver  a  series 
of  lectures  on  modem  French  poetry  in  Boston  dining 
the  following  wnnter.  This  book  consists  of  those  lec- 
tures, rewritten  and  arranged  for  the  press. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  that  while  so  many  Americans  and 
English  repair  every  year  to  France,  so  few  of  them,  in 
either  country',  realized  what  a  serious  and  self-sacri- 
ficing people  the  French  were  making  of  themselves, 
before  the  present  war  brought  the  fact  to  their  notice. 
To  students  of  French  Hterature,  this  was  no  matter  for 
surprise.  They  understood  that  the  earnest  and  single- 
minded  endeavour  appHed  to  the  arts  must  have  its 
counterpart  in  other  branches  of  the  national  hfe.  That 
this  was  the  case,  is  now  abundantly  proved.  We,  in 
the  Enghsh-speaking  cotmtries,  are  asking  oiu-selves  how 
we  could  have  so  misunderstood  the  French  people. 
But  to  be  misunderstood  has  been  the  lot  of  Frenchmen 
when  dealing  -^-ith  Anglo-Saxons  from  time  immemorial. 

The  bar  of  language  has  something  to  do  M,-ith  it,  un- 
doubtedly. Another  reason  is  the  unfortunate  attitude 
of  oiu"  schools  and  colleges,  which  always  assume  that 
everything  worthy  to  be  called  Hteratiu"e,  and  therefore 
studied,  ceased,  in  even,'  cotuitry,  a  generation  or  two 
ago.     This  has  prevented  the  mass  of  English-speaking 


vi  Preface 

people  from  realizing  that  France  has  just  been  passing 
through  one  of  the  great  poetical  epochs  of  her  career  — 
one  of  the  great  poetical  epochs  of  the  world. 

It  may  be  argued  that  during  this  period  she  has  pro- 
duced no  poet  of  the  first  order.  No  poet  to  rank  with 
Homer,  or  Shakespeare,  or  Dante.  That  would  indeed 
seem  to  be  true  ;  but  we  speak  of  the  time  of  Wordsworth, 
and  Coleridge,  and  Shelley,  and  Keats,  as  being  one  of 
England's  great  poetic  periods;  and  we  speak  of  Ger- 
many in  the  same  way,  during  the  time  of  Goethe  and 
Schiller.  Beginning  with  Lamartine  and  Victor  Hugo, 
France  has  been  having  a  succession  of  remarkable  poets 
for  eighty  years.  The  war  will  end  this  period,  perforce. 
For  whatever  great  poets  may  arise  after  the  war  will 
belong  to  a  new  era.  So  titanic  an  upheaval  as  the  present 
war  must  snap  the  period  which  preceded  it  off  short. 

It  seems  a  fitting  moment,  then,  to  stop  and  take  our 
bearings;  and  it  seems  a  fitting  moment  to  introduce 
to  those  EngHsh-speaking  readers  not  already  familiar 
with  them  the  last  poets  of  an  era  just  closing. 

The  poets  I  have  chosen  for  this  volume  belong  to  the 
generation  immediately  succeeding  that  of  Verlaine  and 
Mallarme.  They  are,  with  the  exception  of  one,  all 
ahve  to-day.  But  they  are  in  no  sense  to  be  ranked  with 
les  jeunes.  They  are  men  of  middle  age  and  undisputed 
fame,  and,  were  French  taught  as  it  ought  to  be,  their 
names  woiild  be  household  words  with  us  as  they  are  in 
their  native  land. 

So  far,  however,  is  this  from  being  the  case,  that  few 
libraries  contain  all  their  works,  and  of  the  mass  of  criti- 
cal writings  which  has  sprung  up  about  them,  only  a 


Preface  vii 

scattered  voliime  here  and  there  is  obtainable.  These 
facts  have  been  brought  to  my  notice  again  and  again, 
and  it  is  because  of  them  that  the  present  volume  has 
seemed  to  fill  a  need. 

I  am  farther  emboldened  by  the  very  kind  reception 
which  the  lectures  received,  and  by  the  fact  that,  to  my 
knowledge,  there  is  no  other  English  book  which  covers 
the  same  ground.  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse's  "French  Pro- 
files" contains  brief  critical  essays  on  Regnier,  Verhaeren, 
Samain,  and  Fort,  but  with  no  biographic  material,  and 
does  not  include  Gourmont  or  Jammes ;  and  Mr.  Vance 
Thompson's  "French  Portraits"  was  written  fifteen  years 
ago,  before  some  of  these  poets  had  produced  their  best 
work,  and  makes  no  pretence  at  being  more  than  a  pleas- 
ant, anecdotic  account  of  the  writers  he  mentions. 

In  the  following  essays,  I  have  pursued  a  slightly  dif- 
ferent arrangement  from  the  one  usual  in  such  cases. 
Instead  of  first  giving  a  biographical  account  of  the  man, 
and  then  a  critical  survey  of  his  work,  I  have  followed 
his  career  as  he  lived  it,  and  taken  the  volumes  in  the 
order  in  which  they  were  written.  I  have  tried  to  give 
the  reader  the  effect  of  having  known  the  man  and  read 
his  books  as  they  were  published,  commenting  upon 
them  as  they  came  along.  The  biographies  are  slight,  as 
must  always  be  the  case  while  their  subjects  are  still 
living,  but  they  have  been  taken  from  reliable  sources. 

I  have  made  no  attempt  at  an  exhaustive  critical 
analysis  of  the  various  works  of  these  authors.  Rather, 
I  have  tried  to  suggest  certain  things  which  appear  to  the 
trained  poet  while  reading  them.  The  pages  and  pages 
of  hair-splitting  criticism  turned  out  by  erudite  gentle- 


viii  Prejace 

men  for  their  own  amusement,  has  been  no  part  of  my 
scheme.  But  I  think  the  student,  the  poet  seeking  new 
inspiration,  the  reader  endeavouring  to  understand  another 
poetic  idiom,  will  find  what  they  need  to  set  them  on 
their  way. 

I  have  given  many  quotations  —  as  the  best  way  to 
study  an  author  is  to  read  him  —  and  for  the  convenience 
of  those  readers,  well  versed  in  French  prose  but  not  yet 
fully  at  home  in  French  poetry,  translations  of  the  poems 
will  be  found  in  an  appendix.  The  translations  are  in 
prose.  Verse  translations  must  always  depart  somewhat 
from  the  original,  on  account  of  the  exigencies  of  rh5rtne 
and  metre.  As  my  desire  was  not  to  make  English  poems 
about  a  French  original,  but  to  make  the  French  poems 
in  the  text  understandable,  I  have  sacrificed  the  form 
to  the  content.  The  translations  are  exact,  and  in  every 
case  reproduce,  as  far  as  is  possible  in  another  language, 
the  "perfume"  of  the  poem.  By  reading  them,  and  then 
turning  to  the  original  and  reading  it  aloud  in  French, 
those  least  versed  in  the  tongue  will  get  an  idea  of  the 
music  of  the  poem,  while  at  the  same  time  understanding 
it.  In  order  not  to  tease  those  readers  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  French,  no  figures  nor  asterisks  appear  in 
the  text,  but  each  translation  is  accompanied  by  the 
number  of  the  page  on  which  the  original  is  to  be  found. 

Another  appendix  contains  bibliographies  of  the  works 
of  each  author  and  a  bibHography  of  books  upon  the 
subject,  for  the  use  of  those  who  wish  to  pursue  it  farther. 

In  preparing  this  volume  my  thanks  are  due  to  M. 
Alfred  Vallette,  editor  of  the  Mercnrc  de  France,  for 
courteously  permitting  me  to  reproduce  the  portraits  of 


Preface  ix 

Emile  Verhaeren,  Albert  Samain,  Henri  de  Regnier, 
and  Francis  Jammes,  and  to  quote  freely  from  all  books 
published  by  the  Mercure ;  to  MM.  Remy  de  Gourmont  * 
and  Paul  Fort,  for  sending  me,  one  a  drawing,  and  the 
other  a  photograph,  for  reproduction;  to  Mrs.  Arthur 
Hutchinson  (Mile.  Magdeleine  Garret)  for  invaluable  assis- 
tance and  information,  —  to  her  intimate  knowledge  of  her 
own  language,  unerring  taste,  and  trained  critical  faculty, 
I  owe  all  that  I  have  been  able  to  acquire  of  the  French 
tongue;  to  Mile.  Jeanne  Charon,  for  valuable  suggestions 
of  technical  detail ;  and  to  Mr.  F.  S.  Flint,  whose  wide 
reading  and  critical  articles  on  modem  French  poetry  in 
"  Poetry  and  Drama  "  have  been  of  great  service  to  me, 
for  lists  of  books  and  expert  knowledge. 

AMY  LOWELL. 
Jime  24,  1915. 


*  It  is  with  a  profound  sense  of  personal  loss  that  I  record  the 
death  of  M.  de  Gourmont  on  September  28th.  The  news  was  re- 
ceived while  this  book  was  passing  through  the  press,  too  late  to  be 
incorporated  in  the  text.  I  wish  here  to  express  my  great  admira- 
tion for  his  work,  and  my  gratitude  for  an  encouragement  which 
even  under  the  heavy  weight  of  illness  he  did  not  stint  to  give.  By 
his  death  France  loses  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  sincere  artists  of 
his  generation. 


CONTENTS 


Emile  Verhaeren        .         .         .         .         , 

I 

Albert  Samain 

.       49 

Remy  de  Gourmont    

.     105 

Henri  de  R^nier      .... 

.     147 

Francis  Jammes 

211 

Paul  Fort  

.     269 

Appendix  A :  Translations 

•     327 

Appendix  B  :  Bibliography 

.     467 

n 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


£mile  Verhaeren 
Albert  Samain    . 
Remy  de  Gourmont 
Henri  de  Regnier 
Francis  Jammes  . 
Paul  Fort  . 


Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

49 

105 
147 

211 

269 


XIU 


EMILE  VERHAEREN 


EMILE   VERHAEREN 


When  I  planned  this  book,  I  realized  that  the 
name  of  Emile  Verhaeren  would  be  the  best  known 
of  my  group  of  six  French  poets.  And  I  felt  that 
I  had  a  right  to  include  him  among  French  poets 
since  he  wrote  in  French.  Now,  the  name  of 
Emile  Verhaeren  is  not  only  the  best  known  name  of 
my  group,  but  a  very  well  known  name  indeed. 
Newspapers  and  magazines  are  full  of  his  fame, 
various  publishers  are  issuing  translations  of  his 
poems,  and  a  translation  of  a  German  biography 
of  him  appeared  a  year  ago.  But  the  most  impor- 
tant thing  which  time  has  effected  in  his  regard  is 
to  divorce  him  forever  from  the  stream  of  French 
literature.  He  ranks  now,  not  only  as  the  prophet 
of  a  new  era,  but  as  the  authentic  voice  of  a  dead  era. 
The  Belgium  he  portrays  has  been  devastated  by 
war,  and  so  completely  crushed  that  at  the  moment 
it  can  hardly  be  said  to  exist.  And  even  if  in  time 
the  invaders  are  driven  out,  and  Belgium  is  able 
to  continue  herself  politically,  it  will  be  long  before 

3 


4  Six  French  Poets 

she  will  have  leisure  to  devote  her  energies  again  to 
the  arts.  When  that  time  does  come,  we  may  be 
very  sure  that  It  will  be  a  different  civilization  with 
which  the  arts  will  have  to  deal.  The  pathetic 
splendour  of  circumstance,  therefore,  must  always 
hang  over  Verhaeren's  work,  and  enhance  Its  natural 
greatness  still  farther.  Future  ages  will  not  only 
study  him  as  a  great  poet,  but  as  an  accurate  por- 
trayer  of  life  In  Belgium  before  the  war.  His 
artistic  value,  for  many  years  at  least.  Is  bound  to 
be  overshadowed  by  his  historic  value.  He  stands 
out  as  the  finest  flower  of  a  ruined  country,  and  as 
such  can  never  again  be  contemplated  as  merely 
walking  step  by  step  with  the  writers  of  any  other 
country,  no  matter  how  great.  At  present,  however, 
the  war  Is  still  too  new  to  be  regarded  in  this  per- 
spective ;  to  us  who  are  living  not  only  to-day,  but 
in  such  close  relation  to  yesterday,  it  Is  enough  to 
point  out  what  must  be  Verhaeren's  future  position, 
and  then  return  and  consider  him  as  he  has  hitherto 
appeared  to  our  own  generation. 

To-day,  Verhaeren  is  a  man  sixty  years  old,  with 
twenty-three  volumes  of  poems,  three  volumes  of 
plays,  and  four  volumes  of  prose  to  his  credit.  He 
has  been  writing  for  over  thirty  years,  and  has  had 
a  great  Influence  upon  young  writers  all  over  the 
world.  It  Is  in  this  connection  which  we  shall  con- 
sider him  here.  What  future  work  he  will  do  will 
belong  to   that  after- the- war  period  which  we  can 


Entile  Verhaeren  5 

only  dimly  foresee.  At  the  actual  time  of  writing, 
Verhaeren  has  fled  to  England,  where  he  has  found 
an  asylum  and  sympathetic  friends.  Vigorous  as  he 
is,  the  poems  which  he  may  write  there  will  belong 
to  a  new  epoch  in  his  career,  and  with  them  future 
students  of  his  work  will  have  to  deal.  Our  con- 
sideration of  him  ends  with  the  war. 

In  understanding  Verhaeren,  one  must  first  under- 
stand the  conditions  into  which  he  was  born. 
One  of  the  great  interests  in  his  poetry  is  the 
effect  it  has  had  In  changing  and  modifying 
those  conditions.  In  1868,  Hippolyte  Taine  wrote  — 
in  his  chapter  on  "The  Painting  in  the  Low  Coun- 
tries" in  his  "Philosophy  of  Art"  — "to-day  this 
literature  hardly  exists."  Since  then,  Belgium  has 
given  us  Verhaeren  and  Maeterlinck,  in  company 
with  a  host  of  lesser  writers.  Such  fecundity  is 
astonishing,  and  has  called  out  a  large  number  of 
volumes  devoted  to  the  study  of  so  remarkable  a 
phenomenon.  And  all  since  1880,  a  period  of  little 
more  than  thirty  years !  In  his  Mouvement  Lit- 
ter aire  Beige  d' Expression  Frangaise,  M.  Albert 
Heumann  points  out  that  "a  fecund  and  independent 
literature  commonly  exists  in  a  country  of  perfect 
material  prosperity,  and  of  an  absolute  political 
autonomy."  That  this  is  true,  witness  the  ages  of 
Pericles,  the  Emperor  Augustus,  and  Louis  XIV^ ; 
the  period  of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy ;  or  the 
England  of  Elizabeth,  Queen  Anne,  or  George  IV ; 


6  Six  French  Poets 

and  we  see  the  fact  again  in  France  at  the  present 
day. 

Since  1831,  when  Belgium  forced  herself  upon  the 
Powers  as  a  separate  nation  and  elected  a  king  to 
suit  herself,  she  has  enjoyed  extraordinary  prosperity. 
The  enormous  energy  of  the  people  has  developed 
their  unusual  natural  facilities  to  the  fullest  extent. 
There  are  the  coal  fields  in  the  Boisinage  district 
near  Mons,  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Liege. 
There  are  iron  mines,  and  iron  and  steel  works,  at 
Charleroi  and  Liege.  There  are  quarries  of  marble, 
granite,  and  slate.  Ghent  is  the  capital  of  a  vast 
textile  industry ;  and  lace  is  manufactured  all  over 
the  country,  Brussels  point  being  famous  throughout 
the  world.  But  this  is  not  all,  Belgium  carries  on 
(or,  alas !  carried  on)  an  enormous  commerce. 
Antwerp  is  one  of  the  largest  and  most  important 
ports  in  the  world.  And  again,  this  is  not  all,  for 
Belgium  is  an  agricultural  country  chiefly,  and 
where  everything  is  on  so  superlative  a  scale, 
"chiefly"  means  a  great  deal.  In  fact,  it  has 
about  six  and  one-half  millions  of  acres  under  cul- 
tivation. In  this  little  bit  of  a  country,  less  than 
half  as  big  as  the  state  of  Maine,  such  an  acreage 
is  enormous. 

But  side  by  side  with  this  booming  modernism 
lives  the  other  Belgium  —  mystic,  superstitious  — 
where  moss-grown  monasteries  stand  beside  sluggish 
canals,  and  the  angelus  rings  across  flat,  wind-blown 


Etnile  Verhaeren  7 

fields.  Belgium  is  a  strange  mixture  of  activities, 
races,  and  opinions.  Roman  Catholics  and  Socialists 
dispute  for  control  of  the  government,  and  authors 
write  and  publish  in  German  and  French,  some 
fanatics  even  insist  on  doing  so  in  Flemish,  and 
agitate  to  have  Flemish  taught  in  the  schools,  a 
desire  with  which  the  Celtic  movement  in  Ireland 
has  made  us  familiar. 

In  the  little  town  of  Saint-Amand  in  East  Flan- 
ders, southwest  of  Antwerp  and  east  of  Ghent,  on 
the  river  Escaut,  Emile  Verhaeren  was  born  on  the 
twenty-first  of  May,  1855.  His  father,  Gustave 
Verhaeren,  was  the  son  of  a  cloth  merchant  of 
Brussels.  His  mother  was  a  Mile.  Debock,  a  na- 
tive of  Saint-Amand,  where  her  brother  was  pro- 
prietor of  an  oil  plant.  And  presumably  Gustave 
Verhaeren  chose  to  live  in  Saint-Amand  on  account 
of  his  wife's  connection  in  the  country.  The  Ver- 
haerens  were  probably  of  Dutch  extraction,  but  the 
Debocks  were  certainly  French  (some  centuries 
before,  it  is  needless  to  say,  as  both  families  can  be 
traced  to  different  parts  of  Belgium  in  the  eighteenth 
century).  Curiously  enough,  only  French  was 
spoken  in  Gustave  Verhaeren's  household,  and  the 
servants  all  came  from  Liege.  Emile  Verhaeren  has 
never  known  Flemish,  although  he  took  some  lessons 
in  it  from  the  schoolmaster  in  the  village,  when  he 
was  seven  years  old. 

Saint-Amand  stands  in  a  country  of  wide  hori- 


8  Six  French  Poets 

zons,  where  windmills  stretch  out  their  arms  to  the 
sky,  and  broad  clouds  sweep  over  it,  trailing  their 
shadows  on  the  fiat  plain  below.  It  is  a  grey, 
northern  country,  of  fogs  and  strong  winds.  All 
these  things  impressed  themselves  upon  the  little 
Verhaeren's  brain,  and  became  a  natural  part  of  his 
consciousness,  and  the  objects  of  his  greatest  love. 
As  the  boy  Constable  is  said  to  have  grown  familiar 
with  clouds,  and  to  have  acquired  a  love  for  them, 
in  tending  his  father's  windmill,  so  the  boy  Ver- 
haeren  must  have  got  his  knowledge  of  weather  and 
skies  while  wandering  along  the  level,  paved  roads 
of  East  Flanders,  buffeted  by  the  wind  and  washed 
by  the  sun,  or  while  lying  in  bed  listening  to  the 
rain  splash  on  tiled  roofs,  and  patter  against  the 
shutters.  His  poems  are  full  of  weather.  They 
are  almost  a  "line-a-day"  book  of  temperatures  and 
atmospheres.  Take  this  of  a  violent  wind,  for  in- 
stance : 

Un  poing  d'effroi  tord  les  villages ; 

Les  hauts  clochers,  dans  les  lointains, 

Envoient  I'echo  de  leurs  tocsins 
Bondir  de  plage  en  plage. 

or  this,  of  a  gentle  one : 

Le  vent  chante,  le  vent  babille 
avec  pinson,  tarin,  moineau, 
le  vent  sififie,  brille  et  scintille 
k  la  pointe  des  longs  roseaux, 


Bmile  Verhaeren  9 

le  vent  se  noue  et  s'entrelace  et  se  denoue 
et  puis,  soudain,  s'enfuit  jusqu'aux  vergers  luisants, 
la-bas,  ou  les  pommiers,  pareils  a  des  paons  blancs, 
—  nacre  et  soleil  —  lui  font  la  roue. 

Take  this,  of  clouds : 

Et  Septembre,  la-haut, 

Avec  son  ciel  de  nacre  et  d'or  voyage, 

Et  suspend  sur  les  pres,  les  champs  et  les  hameaux 

Les  blocs  etincelants  de  ses  plus  beaux  nuages. 

Or  this,  of  a  Httle  river : 

L'entendez-vous,  I'entendez-vous 
Le  menu  flot  sur  les  cailloux  ? 

II  passe  et  court  et  glisse, 
Et  doucement  dedie  aux  branches. 
Qui  sur  son  cours  se  penchent, 

Sa  chanson  lisse. 

Gustave  Verhaeren,  his  wife  and  little  son,  lived 
in  a  cottage  of  their  own,  with  a  garden  blazing  full 
of  flowers.  Behind  it  stretched  the  fields  of  yellow 
wheat,  and  close  beside  it  ran  the  slow  river.  In 
one  of  his  last  books,  Verhaeren  has  described  his 
childhood.  He  tells  us  how  he  played  in  the  great 
barns,  and  climbed  steeples,  and  listened  to  the 
maids  singing  old  Flemish  songs  at  their  washing. 
He  describes  himself  sitting  with  the  watchmaker 
and  marvelling  at  the  little  wheels  of  the  watches, 


lo  Six  French  Poets 

and  standing  on  the  bank  of  the  river  and  looking 
at  the  heavy  cargo  boats  sail  by. 

Je  me  souviens  du  village  pres  de  I'Escaut, 
D'ou  Ton  voyait  les  grands  bateaux 
Passer  ainsi  qu'un  rdve  empanache  de  vent 
Et  merveilletix  de  voiles. 
Le  soir  en  cortege  sous  les  etoiles. 

By  and  by,  he  was  sent  to  school  in  Brussels  for 
two  years,  at  the  Institute  Saint  Louis ;  and  when 
he  was  thirteen  or  fourteen,  he  entered  the  Jesuit 
College  of  Sainte-Barbe  in  Ghent.  Here,  a  few 
years  later,  came  Maeterlinck  also,  but  whether  the 
boys  met  there  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  out. 

It  had  been  decided  in  the  family  that  Emile 
should  enter  his  uncle's  oil  works,  and  succeed  to 
the  business.  In  the  pleasant  way  of  families  from 
time  immemorial,  this  had  apparently  been  arranged 
without  consulting  Emile's  wishes  in  the  matter. 
At  twenty,  the  boy  had  finished  his  college  course, 
and  he  did  come  back  to  Saint-Amand  and  go  into 
the  oil  works  for  a  year.  But  the  life  was  most 
distasteful  to  him  ;  he  needed  to  see  the  world,  to 
measure  himself  intellectually  with  other  young 
men,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he 
showed  the  slightest  taste  or  ability  for  business. 
In  order,  however,  to  find  some  plausible  reason  for 
his  dislike  of  the  work,  he  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to 
study  law.     Whether  he  had  tried  writing  at  this 


Emile  Verhaeren  ii 

period  and  felt  any  desire  to  become  a  poet,  I  do  not 
know.  But  to  persuade  a  practical  father  and 
uncle  to  consent  to  his  giving  up  a  lucrative  business 
in  order  to  become  a  poet,  would  not  be  a  simple 
task.  And  certainly  in  asking  to  become  a  lawyer, 
Emile  stood  more  chance  of  having  his  wish  granted. 

It  was  granted.  And  young  Verhaeren  left  home 
again  to  study  law  at  the  University  of  Louvain. 

At  Louvain,  Verhaeren  really  did  study  law, 
strangely  enough,  and  was  graduated  in  1881.  But 
he  did  many  other  things  also.  He  danced  at 
Kermesses,  drank  beer,  got  drunk,  and  generally 
overdid  things  with  the  true  Flemish  ardour,  whether 
for  work  or  play.  Among  his  fellow  students  there 
were  various  other  tentative  poets.  Together  they 
got  up  a  little  paper  called  La  Semaine,  and  Ver- 
haeren published  several  pieces  in  it,  under  the 
pseudonym  of  "Rodolph."  That  various  of  the 
traits  which  later  distinguished  the  work  of  this 
new  generation  of  Flemish  writers  were  already  in 
evidence,  is  apparent  from  the  fact  that  the  paper 
was  suppressed  by  the  University  authorities  in 
1 88 1,  fifteen  months  after  its  foundation. 

Here  was  Verhaeren,  a  full-fledged  barrister,  enter- 
ing the  office  of  Edmond  Picard  in  Brussels.  But 
his  heart  was  not  in  the  work,  and  he  conducted  the 
one  or  two  quite  unimportant  cases  he  had  to  plead 
so  half-heartedly,  that  Maitre  Picard,  himself, 
advised  him  to  give  up  the  law. 


12  Six  French  Poets 

During  this  time,  an  intellectual  ferment  had  been 
going  on  in  the  young  poet.  Brought  up  as  a 
Roman  Catholic,  educated  in  a  Jesuit  college,  he 
had  been  ardent  and  devout.  Yet,  even  then,  the 
Jesuits  had  failed  to  persuade  him  to  become  a 
priest.  Now,  with  every  year,  his  zest  for  living 
grew,  his  mind  expanded  and  dared,  and  Catholicism 
dropped  away  from  him  forever.  The  mystic  side 
of  the  Flemish  character  was  to  show  itself  in  quite 
a  different  form,  and  only  much  later. 

In  Brussels,  Verhaeren  found  a  set  of  young  men, 
eager  like  himself,  anxious  to  stamp  themselves  into 
literature.  Zola's  realistic  novels  were  just  begin- 
ning to  be  discussed  in  Belgium,  and  Camille  Le- 
monnier  was  the  interpreter  of  this  new  naturalism. 
And  just  as  a  whole  generation  of  younger  writers 
in  France  adopted  Zola's  theories,  so  did  they  attract 
the  younger  writers  of  Belgium.  And  really  the 
protest  was  necessary  to  down  that  long  set  of  sen- 
timental hypocrisies  known  in  England  as  "  Victo- 
rian." For  France  and  Belgium  had  their  "Vic- 
torian" periods,  too,  although  under  different  names. 

In  order  to  flaunt  the  banner  of  free,  realistic  art, 
with  no  taboos  (as  the  current  slang  of  the  reviews 
calls  it),  a  remarkable  and  intelligent  young  man. 
Max  Waller,  poet  and  writer  of  short  stories,  got 
up  a  review  entitled  La  Jeune  Belgique.  In  its 
effect  on  Belgian  letters,  this  review  has  been  com- 
pared  to   the  Mercure  de  France  and  its    place  in 


Emile  Verhaeren  13 

French  literature.  The  early  death  of  the  founder 
of  La  Jeune  Belgique  kept  it  from  becoming  the 
world-famous  periodical  it  might  have  been.  While 
it  existed,  it  gave  an  opening  for  many  remarkable 
young  men,  among  others,  Verhaeren. 

A  pleasant  anecdote  is  told  of  him  at  this  time, 
how  one  rainy  day  he  clumped  into  Lemonnier's 
lodgings  (never  having  met  Lemonnier,  by  the  way) , 
and  blurted  out,  "Je  veux  vous  lire  des  vers!" 
And  what  he  read  was  the  manuscript  of  his  first 
book,  Les  Flamandes. 

Lemonnier  encouraged  him,  criticised  him,  and, 
shortly  after,  the  book  was  published.  Then  the 
storm  broke,  and  howled  about  Verhaeren.  The 
book  was  strong,  vivid,  brutal.  It  was  as  violent, 
as  coarse,  as  full  of  animal  spirits,  as  the  pictures  of 
Breugel  the  Elder,  Teniers,  or  Jan  Steen.  As  one 
of  the  critics  said,  **M.  Verhaeren  pierced  like  an 
abscess."  The  critics  were  horrified,  his  own  quite 
orthodox  family  was  deeply  shocked.  The  battle 
waged  furiously.  All  those  adherents  of  the  old 
order  of  sentimental  idealization  fell  upon  the  book, 
and  in  the  columns  of  V Europe  Lemonnier  strongly 
defended  it. 

And  really  it  is  a  startling  book,  written  with  a 
sort  of  fury  of  colour.  The  red,  fat  flesh  tints  of 
Rubens  have  got  into  it,  and  the  pages  seem  hot 
and  smoky  with  perspiration.  The  desire  to  paint 
seems  engrained  in  the  Flemish  character;  M.  Heu- 


14  Six  French  Poets 

man  declares  that  all  Belgian  writers,  whether  of 
poetry  or  prose,  are  painters.  But,  also,  it  must 
not  be  forgotten  that  they  are  Flemish  painters, 
and  their  palettes  are  hot  and  highly  coloured.  In 
his  poem,  Les  Vieux  Mattres,  Verhaeren  speaks  of 
these  old  masters  as  painting  "les  fureurs  d'estomac, 
de  ventre  et  de  debauche."  The  description  applies 
equally  well  to  his  own  poems  in  this  book.  They 
are  marvellously  done,  blazing  with  colour  and  bla- 
tant with  energy. 

Metrically,  Les  Flamandes  is  not  particularly  in- 
teresting, being  written  in  the  ordinary  French 
alexandrine.  The  interest  of  the  book  lies  in  its 
treatment  of  subjects.  Many  of  the  m^ost  remark- 
able poems  must  be  read  in  their  context,  but  there 
is  a  series  of  interiors,  little  Flemish  genre  pictures, 
which  show  the  vivid  style  in  which  the  whole  is 
written.     This  is  one  of  them  : 

LA  CUISINE 

Le  seuil  de  la  cuisine  etait  vieux  et  fendu. 
Le  foyer  y  brillait  comme  une  rouge  flaquc, 
Et  ses  flammes,  mordant  incessamment  la  plaque, 
Y  rongeaient  un  sujet  obscene  en  fer  fondu. 

Le  feu  s'ejouissait  sous  le  manteau  tendu 
Sur  lui,  comme  I'auvent  par-dessus  la  baraque, 
Dent  les  clairs  bibelots  en  bois,  en  cuivre,  en  laque, 
Cr^pitaient  moins  aux  yeux  que  le  brasier  tordu. 


Emile  Verhaeren  15 

Les  rayons  s'echappaient  comme  un  jet  d'emeraudes, 
Et,  ci  et  la,  partout  donnaient  des  chiquenaudes 
De  clarte  vive  aux  brocs  de  verre,  aux  plats  d'email. 

A  voir  sur  tout  relief  tomber  des  etincelles, 

On  eut  dit  —  tant  le  feu  s'emiettait  par  parcelles  — 

Qu'on  vannait  du  soleil  a  travers  un  vitrail. 

Notice  how  wonderfully  bright  and  sparkling  it  all 
is,  —  "the  snapping  of  light  in  the  glasses"  and  the 
fire  "crumbling  itself  into  sparks."  How  excel- 
lently the  word  "crumbling"  gives  the  up  and 
down  efifect  of  firelight ! 

Les  Flamandes  appeared  in  1883,  and  it  was  not 
until  1886  that  Verhaeren's  next  book,  Les  Moines, 
published  by  quite  a  different  firm,  came  out.  Why 
Verhaeren  changed  his  publisher,  we  do  not  know. 
Why  he  changed  his  whole  manner  of  writing  can  be 
guessed. 

I  have  said  that  the  Flemish  character  is  made 
up  of  two  parts,  one  composed  of  violent  and  brutal 
animal  spirits,  the  other  of  strange,  unreasoning 
mysticism.  This  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  along 
the  line  of  material  prosperity  the  Belgians  have 
advanced  with  leaps  and  bounds,  while  on  the  line 
of  abstract  ideas,  of  philosophical  or  scientific  en- 
lightenment, they  have  contributed  almost  nothing 
to  the  world.  Their  aspirations  toward  a  broader 
point  of  view  led  them  only  to  the  Utopia  of  the 


1 6  Six  French  Poets 

materialistic  socialist.  Verhaeren  himself,  with  all 
his  effort  and  achievement,  can  never  quite  free 
himself  from  the  trammels  of  the  material.  Because 
the  idealistic  side  of  the  Belgian  mind  is  feeble  and 
poor,  and  cannot  get  along  without  the  swaddling 
clothes  of  superstition,  Belgian  mysticism  is  charm- 
ing, poetic,  but  —  gets  us  nowhere. 

Whether  Verhaeren  wrote  Les  Moines  to  satisfy 
the  need  of  expression  for  this  gentler  side  of  his 
nature,  whether  his  painter's  eye  was  fascinated  by 
the  pictorial  value  of  old  monasteries  and  quiet 
monks,  or  whether  he  wished  to  prove  to  the  world 
that  he  could  do  things  that  were  not  violent,  it  is 
impossible  to  say.  None  of  his  biographers  has 
suggested  the  last  reason.  Presumably  they  would 
consider  it  beneath  him,  but  I  see  no  cause  to  sup- 
pose so  great  a  man  as  Verhaeren  to  be  in  any  way 
inhuman.  And  certainly  to  show  the  world  that  he 
has  more  than  one  string  to  his  lute  is  a  very  natural 
desire  in  a  young  poet. 

Les  Moines  is  a  sad  book,  a  faded  book.  The 
monasteries  are  here,  but  bathed  in  the  light  of  a 
pale  sunset.  As  a  boy,  Verhaeren  used  often  to  go 
to  the  Bernhardine  Monastery  at  Bornhem  with  his 
father.  In  order  to  renew  his  impressions  of  cloister 
life  before  writing  this  book,  he  passed  three  weeks 
at  the  monastery  of  Forges,  near  Chimay,  and  much 
of  the  book  was  written  there. 

There  is  nothing  in  Les  Moines  to  detain  us  here. 


Emile  Verhaeren  17 

It  Is  a  book  of  delicate  etchings,  pensive  and  melan- 
choly, and  again  written  In  French  alexandrines. 
In  this  book,  more  than  In  Les  Flamandes,  Verhaeren 
seems  to  be  feeling  his  way. 

Then  Verhaeren  broke  down.  He  had  travelled 
a  great  deal,  had  been  to  France,  Germany,  Spain, 
and  England.  That  he  had  been  overdoing,  over- 
thlnklng,  Is  obvious.  At  any  rate,  he  succumbed  to 
what  seems  to  have  been  a  bad  attack  of  nervous 
prostration,  with  gastric  complications.  Herr  Zweig, 
In  his  exhaustive  biography,  spends  a  great  deal  of 
time  In  telling  us  how  he  had  to  have  the  door-bell 
taken  off  because  he  could  not  bear  Its  ringing,  and 
how  the  people  In  the  house  had  to  go  about  In  felt 
slippers.  Herr  Zweig  Is  delighted  with  Les  Soirs, 
Les  Debacles,  and  Les  Flambeaux  Noirs,  published 
respectively  In  1887,  1888,  and  1890,  because  he 
considers  them  so  remarkable  a  portrayal  of  an 
unusual  state  of  mind,  and  says  they  must  be 
"priceless  to  pathologists  and  psychologists."  I 
suspect  that  if  Herr  Zweig  lived  In  America  he  would 
not  be  so  interested  in  the  description  of  what  is  to 
us  quite  a  common  occurrence.  I  do  not  suppose 
there  is  a  person  who  will  read  these  lines,  who  has 
not  either  been  there  himself  or  had  a  friend  who  has. 

That  Verhaeren  should  have  written  three  books 
during  his  illness  is  not  surprising.  Writers  always 
write,  no  matter  how  111  they  are.  With  them  It  is 
so  natural  a  function  that  It  tires  them  less  than  to 


1 8  Six  French  Poets 

do  anything  else.  I  could  adduce  a  host  of  examples 
to  prove  this  point,  but  two  will  do  :  Francis  Park- 
man  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

I  will  quote  two  poems  from  Les  Soirs,  not  be- 
cause of  their  interest  to  the  pathologist  and  psy- 
chologist, but  because  they  are  such  remarkable 
pictures,  and  because  they  show  that  wedding  of 
sound  to  sense  which  is  to  become  one  of  Verhaeren's 
most  characteristic  powers. 

LONDRES 

Et  ce  Londres  de  fonte  et  de  bronze,  mon  ame, 
Ou  des  plaques  de  fer  claquent  sous  des  hangars, 

Ou  des  voiles  s'en  vont,  sans  Notre-Dame 
Pour  etoile,  s'en  vont,  la-bas,  vers  les  hasards. 

Gares  de  suie  et  de  fumee,  ou  du  gaz  pleuxe 

Ses  spleens  d'argent  lointain  vers  des  chemins  d' eclair, 

Ou  des  b^tes  d'ennui  baillent  a  I'heure 
Dolente  immensement,  qui  tinte  a  Westminster. 

Et  ces  quais  infinis  de  lanternes  fatales, 

Parques  dont  les  fuseaux  plongent  aux  profondeurs, 

Et  ces  marins  noyes,  sous  les  petales 
Des  fleurs  de  boue  ou  la  flamme  met  des  lueurs. 

Et  ces  chaies  et  ces  gestes  de  femmes  soules, 
Et  ces  alcools  de  lettres  d'or  jusques  aux  toits, 

Et  tout  a  coup  la  mort,  parmi  ces  foules  ; 
O  mon  ame  du  soir,  ce  Londres  noir  qui  traine  en  toi ! 


Emile  Verhaeren  19 

See  how  long  and  slow  the  cadence  is,  and  the  heavy 
consonants  make  the  poem  knock  and  hum  like  the 
Westminster  bells  he  mentions.  It  almost  seems  as 
though  Big  Ben  must  have  been  striking  when  he 
wrote  the  poem. 

This  intermixture  of  sound  with  pure  painting  Is 
one  of  Verhaeren's  most  remarkable  traits.  In  this 
next  poem,  Le  Moulin,  we  have  another  sombre 
landscape,  but  the  whole  movement  is  different ; 
from  the  first  line  we  are  conscious  of  sound,  but  it 
is  no  longer  the  insistent  beating  which  underlies 
Londres;  it  is  a  sort  of  sliding,  a  faint,  rushing  noise. 
Any  one  reading  the  first  stanza  aloud  cannot  fail 
to  be  conscious  of  it.  It  is  this  presence  of  sounds 
in  his  verse,  quite  apart  from  the  connotations  of 
his  words,  which  gives  Verhaeren's  work  its  strange, 
magic  reality,  and  makes  it  practically  impossible  to 
translate. 

LE   MOULIN 

Le  moulin  toume  au  fond  du  soir,  tres  lentement, 
Sur  un  del  de  tristesse  et  de  melancolie, 
II  tourne  et  tourne,  et  sa  voile,  couleur  de  lie. 
Est  triste  et  faible  et  lourde  et  lasse,  infiniment. 

Depuis  I'aube,  ses  bras,  comme  des  bras  de  plainte, 
Se  sont  tendus  et  sent  tombes ;  et  les  voici 
Qui  retombent  encor,  1^-bas,  dans  I'air  noirci 
Et  le  silence  entier  de  la  nature  eteinte. 


20  Six  French  Poets 


Un  jour  souffrant  d'hiver  sur  les  hameaux  s'endort, 
Les  nuages  sont  las  de  leurs  voyages  sombres, 
Et  le  long  des  taillis  qui  ramassent  leurs  ombres, 
Les  omieres  s'en  vont  vers  un  horizon  mort. 

Autour  d'un  pale  etang,  quelques  huttes  de  hetre 
Tres  miserablement  sont  assises  en  rond ; 
Une  lampe  de  cuivre  est  pendue  au  plafond 
Et  patine  de  feu  le  mur  et  la  fenetre. 

Et  dans  la  plaine  immense,  au  bord  du  fiot  dormeur, 
EUes  fixent  —  les  tres  souff reteuses  bicoques  !  — 
Avec  les  pauvres  yeux  de  leurs  carreaux  en  loques, 
Le  vieux  moulin  qui  toume  et,  las,  qui  toume  et  meurt. 

Before  we  leave  these  three  books,  I  want  to  give 
one  more  poem,  La  Morte,  which  Is  a  sort  of  end 
dedication  to  Les  Flambeaux  Noirs.  Here,  at  last, 
Verhaeren  begins  to  use  that  extraordinary  vers  libre 
for  which  he  is  afterwards  to  be  so  noted.  Some 
poets  seem  capable  of  expressing  themselves  per- 
fectly In  the  classic  alexandrine,  some  can  use  both 
old  and  new  forms  according  to  the  content  of  the 
poem.  Verhaeren's  Intimate  friend,  Henri  de  Re- 
gnier,  is  remarkable  for  this.  But  the  alexandrine 
has  never  seemed  to  fit  Verhaeren.  His  tumultuous 
nature  seems  cramped  by  its  limitations.  Figure 
the  "Siegfried  Idyl"  played  by  an  orchestra  of  flutes, 
and  harps,  and  tambourines,  and  you  will  see  what 


Entile  Verhaeren  21 

I   mean;    or   imagine  Schumann's   "Fantasie,    Op. 
17"  spiritedly  executed  upon  the  harpsicliord ! 

Verhaeren's  vers  libre  is  always  rhymed.  And  in 
a  language  so  abounding  in  rhyme  as  the  French, 
that  is  no  handicap  to  the  free  poet.  Not  only  does 
Verhaeren  use  end  rhymes,  he  cannot  resist  the  joy 
of  internal  rhymes.  But  I  am  anticipating,  for  in 
La  Morte,  as  you  will  see,  there  are  very  few  internal 
rhymes,  although  his  fondness  for  alliteration  and 
assonance  begins  to  be  noticeable.  For  the  rest. 
La  Morte  is  a  beautiful,  foggy  picture,  sad,  but  with 
a  kind  of  sadness  which  is  already  beginning  to 
enjoy  itself  in  a  sombre  sort  of  way.  In  other  words, 
Verhaeren  is  beginning  to  get  well,  but  he  is  not 
quite  willing  to  admit  it  yet. 

LA  MORTE 

En  sa  robe,  couleur  de  fiel  et  de  poison, 
Le  cadavre  de  ma  raison 
Traine  sur  la  Tamise. 

Des  ponts  de  bronze,  ou  les  wagons 
Entrechoquent  d'interminables  bruits  de  gonds 
Et  des  voiles  de  bateaux  sombres 
Laissent  sur  elle,  choir  leurs  ombres. 

Sans  qu'une  aiguille,  k  son  cadran,  ne  bouge, 
Un  grand  beffroi  masque  de  rouge 
La  regarde,  comme  quelqu'un 
Immensement  de  triste  et  de  defunt. 


22  Six  French  Poets 


Elle  est  morte  de  trop  savoir, 
De  trop  vouloir  sculpter  la  cause, 
Dans  le  socle  de  granit  noir, 
De  chaque  etre  et  de  chaque  chose, 
Elle  est  morte,  atrocement, 
D'un  savant  empoisonnement, 
Elle  est  morte  aussi  d'un  delire 
Vers  un  absurde  et  rouge  empire. 
Ses  nerfs  ont  eclate, 
Tel  soir  illumine  de  fete, 
Qu'elle  sentait  deja  le  triomphe  flotter 
Comme  des  aigles,  sur  sa  tSte. 
Elle  est  morte  n'en  pouvant  plus, 
L'ardeur  et  les  vouloirs  moulus, 
Et  c'est  elle  qui  s'est  tu^e, 
Infiniment  ext6nu6e. 

Au  long  des  funebres  murailles, 
Au  long  des  usines  de  fer 
Dont  les  marteaxix  tonnent  1' eclair, 
Elle  se  traine  aux  funerailles. 

Ce  sont  des  quais  et  des  casernes, 
Des  quais  toujours  et  leurs  lanternes, 
Immobiles  et  lentes  filandieres 
Des  ors  obscurs  de  leurs  lumidres : 
Ce  sont  des  tristesses  de  pierres, 
Maison  de  briques,  donjon  en  noir 
Dont  les  vitres,  momes  paupi^res, 
S'ouvrent  dans  le  brouillard  du  soir ; 


Entile  Verhaeren  23 

Ce  sont  de  grands  chantiers  d'affoleraent, 
Pleins  de  barques  demantelees 
Et  de  vergues  ecartelees 
Sur  un  ciel  de  crucifiement. 

En  sa  robe  de  joyaux  morts,  que  solennise 
L'heure  de  pourpre  a  I'horizon, 
Le  cadavre  de  ma  raison 
Trains  sur  la  Tamise. 

Elle  s'en  va  vers  les  hasards 
Au  fond  de  I'ombre  et  des  brouillards, 
Au  long  bruit  sourd  des  tocsins  lourds, 
Cassant  leur  aile,  au  coin  des  tours. 
Derriere  elle,  laissant  inassouvie 
La  ville  immense  de  la  vie ; 
Elle  s'en  va  vers  I'inconnu  noir 
Dormir  en  des  tombeaux  de  soir, 
La-bas,  on  les  vagues  lentes  et  fortes ; 
Ouvrant  leurs  trous  illimites, 
Engloutissent  a  toute  etemite : 
Les  mortes. 

In  one  line  of  this  poem  Verhaeren  has  given  us 
the  real  cause  of  his  illness.  His  reason  has  died, 
he  says,  "  from  knowing  too  much."  Or,  to  para- 
phrase this,  his  sanity  has  fled  before  the  vision  of 
a  more  extended  knowledge.  The  mystic  and  the 
modern  man  have  been  struggling  within  him.  It  is 
this  struggle  which  has  forced  so  many  French  poets 
back  to  the  Catholic  Church.  But  Verhaeren  was 
made  of  more  resisting  stuff.     The  struggle  downed 


24  Six  French  Poets 

him,  but  did  not  betray  him.  He  fell  back  into  no 
open  arms ;  by  sheer  effort  he  pushed  himself  up 
on  his  feet. 

I  should  have  said  that  for  some  reason  or  other, 
Verhaeren  spent  most  of  these  years  of  illness  in 
London.  His  biographers  imagine  that  the  fog  and 
gloom,  what  one  of  them  calls  the  "melancholy 
scenery  of  industrial  cities,"  was  in  harmony  with 
his  mood.  Perhaps  this  is  true,  and  if  so  I  think 
we  are  right  in  believing  that  his  state  of  mind  had 
more  to  do  with  his  illness  than  the  poor  digestion 
to  which  it  is  usually  attributed.  However  that 
may  be,  Verhaeren  got  better.  He  came  out  of  his 
illness,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  strong  people,  a 
sane,  more  self-reliant  man.  He  left  the  obscurity 
of  London  side  streets  to  plunge  into  the  stream  of 
active  life  in  the  cities  of  his  native  Belgium. 

In  1891,  Verhaeren  published  two  volumes  of 
poems,  with  two  different  publishers.  One,  Les 
Bords  de  la  Route,  is  a  collection  of  poems  written 
at  the  time  of  Les  Flamandes  and  Les  Moines;  the 
other,  Apparus  dans  Mes  Chemins,  marks  the  begin- 
ning of  a  new  epoch.  Verhaeren  is  feeling  the  zest 
of  life  again,  but  it  is  a  more  spiritual  zest  than 
before,  if  one  can  use  the  term  for  such  a  very 
materialistic  spirituality.  Verhaeren  is  waking  up, 
as  it  were,  like  a  man  stretching  his  arms,  not  yet 
fully  awake.  Saint  Georges  is  probably  the  best 
known  poem  of  the  volume  ;   it  begins  charmingly  : 


Emile  Verhaeren  25 

Ouverte  en  large  eclair,  parmi  les  brumes, 

Une  avenue ; 

Et  Saint  Georges,  fermentant  d'ors, 

Avec  des  plumes  et  des  ecumes, 

Au  poitrail  blanc  de  son  cheval,  sans  mors, 

Descend. 

L' equipage  diamentaire 

Fait  de  sa  chute,  im  triomphal  chemin 

De  la  pitie  du  ciel,  vers  notre  terra. 

But  it  has  too  few  of  Verhaeren's  peculiar  excellen- 
cies to  be  worth  quoting  in  full.  As  my  purpose  in 
this  book  is  to  show  and  study  each  poet's  individual 
characteristics,  I  shall  only  quote  those  poems  which 
most  evidently  illustrate  them. 

And  now  we  have  come  to  Verhaeren's  great 
period  ;  to  the  books  which  have  made  him  the  great- 
est poet  of  Belgium,  and  one  of  the  greatest  poets 
of  the  world.  Les  Campagnes  Hallucinees  appeared 
in  1893,  Les  Villages  Illusoires  in  1895,  and  also  in 
1895,  Les  Villes  Tentaculaires.  In  these  three  books 
we  have  all  Verhaeren's  excellencies  in  rich  profusion. 
Here  are  the  towns,  with  their  smoking  factories, 
crowded  streets,  noisy  theatres,  and  busy  wharves ; 
here  are  the  broad,  level  plains  of  Flanders  starred 
with  windmills,  the  little  villages  and  farms,  and  the 
slow  river  where  fishermen  come.  And  here  are 
painted  a  whole  gallery  of  trades :  cabinet-makers, 
blacksmiths,    millers,    rope-walkers.      We    see    the 


26  Six  French  Poets 

peasants  selling  everything  they  possess  to  follow 
the  long,  white  roads  to  the  city  —  white  tentacles 
for  the  swallowing  city.  And  weather !  In  these 
volumes,  Verhaeren  first  shows  that  remarkable 
series  of  weather  pieces  to  which  I  referred  in  the 
beginning  of  this  essay.  Verhaeren  had  found  him- 
self. At  a  time  when  France  was  in  the  midst  of 
Symbolisme;  when  nature,  divorced  from  the  pa- 
thetic fallacy,  made  little  general  appeal ;  when 
every-day  life  was  considered  dull,  and  not  to  be 
thought  about  if  possible;  —  Verhaeren  wrote  of 
nature,  of  daily  happenings,  and  of  modern  inven- 
tions. He  not  only  wrote,  he  not  only  sang ;  he 
shrieked,  and  cut  capers,  and  pounded  on  a  drum. 

Writing  in  French,  Verhaeren  has  never  been  able 
to  restrain  himself  within  the  canons  of  French 
taste.  His  effervescing  nature  found  the  French 
clarity  and  precision,  that  happy  medium  so 
cherished  by  the  Gallic  mind,  as  hampering  as  he 
would  have  found  Greek  artistic  ideals  had  he  lived 
several  centuries  earlier.  He  must  put  three  rhymes 
one  after  the  other  if  he  felt  like  it ;  he  must  have  a 
couple  of  assonances  in  a  line,  or  go  on  alliterating 
down  half  a  page.  There  was  nothing  in  his  nature 
to  make  the  ideas  of  the  Symbolistes  attractive  to 
him  ;  he  would  none  of  them.  The  mysticism  of 
which  I  have  spoken  modified  itself  into  a  great 
humanitarian  realization.  He  believed  in  mankind, 
in   the   future.     Not   precisely    (nothing   is   precise 


Emile  Verhaeren  27 

with  Verhaeren),  but  vaguely,  magnificently,  with 
all  the  faith  his  ancestors  had  placed  in  the 
Church. 

A  Frenchman  would  have  felt  constrained  to  put 
some  definiteness  into  these  hopes.  To  give  some 
form  to  what  certainly  amounted  to  a  religion. 
Verhaeren  was  troubled  by  no  such  teasing  diffi- 
culty. He  simply  burned  with  a  nebulous  ardour, 
and  was  happy  and  fecund.  This  is  one  of  the 
reasons  why  Verhaeren's  poetry  is  so  much  better 
understood  and  appreciated  by  Englishmen  and 
Americans  —  Anglo-Saxons  in  short  —  and  by  Ger- 
mans, than  any  other  French  poetry.  There  is  a 
certain  Teutonic  grandeur  of  mind  in  Verhaeren 
which  is  extremely  sympathetic  to  all  Anglo-Saxons 
and  Germans.  Where  the  French  intellect  seems 
coldly  analytic  and  calm,  Verhaeren  charms  by  his 
fiery  activity. 

One  of  the  devices  which  Verhaeren  employs  with 
consummate  skill,  is  onomatopoeia,  or  using  words 
which  sound  like  the  things  described.  (This  is  at 
once  wedded  to,  and  apart  from,  the  sort  of  sound 
I  have  mentioned  above.)  He  carries  this  effect 
through  whole  poems,  and  it  is  one  of  the  reasons 
for  the  vividness  of  his  poems  on  nature. 

An  excellent  example  of  this  is  La  Pluie  from  Les 
Villages  Illusoires. 


28  Six  French  Poets 

LA  PLUIE 

Longue  comme  des  fils  sans  fin,  la  longue  pluie 
Interminablement,  a  travers  le  jour  gris, 
Ligne  les  carreaux  verts  avec  ses  longs  fils  gris, 
Infiniment,  la  pluie, 
La  longue  pluie, 
La  pluie. 

EUe  s'effile  ainsi,  depuis  hier  soir, 
Des  haillons  mous  qui  pendent, 
Au  ciel  maussade  et  noir. 
EUe  s'etire,  patiente  et  lente, 
Sur  les  chemins,  depuis  hier  soir, 
Sur  les  chemins  et  les  venelles, 
Continuelle. 

Au  long  des  lieues, 

Qui  vont  des  champs,  vers  les  banlieues. 

Par  les  routes  interminablement  courbees, 

Passent,  peinant,  suant,  fumant, 

En  un  profil  d'enterrement, 

Les  attelages,  baches  bombees ; 

Dans  les  omieres  regulieres 

Paralleles  si  longuement 

Qu'elles  semblent,  la  nuit,  se  joindre  au  firmament, 

L'eau  degoutte,  pendant  des  heures ; 

Et  les  arbres  pleurent  et  les  demeures, 

Mouilles  qu'ils  sont  de  longue  pluie, 

Tenacement,  indefinie. 


Emile  Verhaeren  29 

Les  rivieres,  a  travers  leurs  digues  pourries, 

Se  degonflent  sur  les  prairies, 

Ou  flotte  au  loin  du  foin  noye ; 

Le  vent  gifle  aulnes  et  noyers ; 

Sinistrement,  dans  I'eau  jusqu'a  mi-corps, 

De  grands  bceufs  noirs  beuglent  vers  les  cieux  tors ; 

Le  soir  approche,  avec  ses  ombres, 

Dont  les  plaines  et  les  taillis  s'encombrent, 

Et  c'est  toujours  la  pluie 

La  longue  pluie 

Fine  et  dense,  comme  la  suie. 

La  longue  pluie. 

La  pluie  —  et  ses  fils  identiques 

Et  §es  ongles  systematiques 

Tissent  le  vetement, 

Maille  h.  maille,  de  denilment, 

Povu-  les  maisons  et  les  enclos 

Des  villages  gris  et  vieillots : 

Linges  et  chapelets  de  loques 

Qui  s'effiloquent, 

Au  long  de  batons  droits ; 

Bleus  colombiers  coUes  au  toit ; 

Carreaux,  avec,  sur  leur  vitre  sinistre, 

Un  emplatre  de  papier  bistre ; 

Logis  dont  les  gouttieres  regulieres 

Forment  des  croix  sur  des  pignons  de  pierre ; 

Moulins  plantes  uniformes  et  momes, 

Sur  leur  butte,  comme  des  comes ; 

Clochers  et  chapelles  voisines, 


30  Six  French  Poets 

La  pluie, 

La  longue  pluie, 

Pendant  I'hiver,  les  assassine. 

La  pluie, 

La  longue  pluie,  avec  ses  longs  fils  gris, 

Avec  ses  cheveux  d'eau,  avec  ses  rides, 

La  longue  pluie 

Des  vieux  pays, 

Etemelle  et  torpide ! 

The  long  sweeping  I's  of  the  first  stanza  give  the 
effect  of  the  interminable  lines  of  rain  in  an  extraor- 
dinary manner,  and  the  repetition  of 

...  la  pluie, 
La  longue  pluie. 
La  pluie. 

adds  a  continuous  drawing  out,  a  falHng  —  falling 
—  falling  —  as  it  were.  Even  apart  from  the  beauty 
and  surprise  of  the  rhymes,  the  movement  of  this 
poem,  and  its  pictorial  quality,  make  it  one  of 
Verhaeren's  masterpieces. 

He  has  done  this  same  thing  in  a  number  of  other 
poems  in  this  volume,  such  as  La  Neige,  Le  Silence, 
Le  Vent.     I  only  wish  I  had  space  to  give  them  all. 

Two  other  poems  in  this  book  I  cannot  pass  by. 
They  are  pictures  of  village  Hfe,  full  of  feeling  and 
understanding,  and  rich  in  that  pictorial  sense  which 
never  deserts  Verhaeren.     The  first  one,  Le  Meunier, 


Emile  Verhaeren  31 

is  made  up  of  the  beauty  of  terror  —  terror  worked 
up,  little  by  little,  from  the  first  line  to  the  last. 
Verhaeren  is  no  mere  descriptive  poet.  Neither  is 
he  a  surface  realist.  His  realism  contains  the  psy- 
chologic as  well  as  the  physiologic.  Spadeful  by 
spadeful,  the  earth  rattles  down  on  the  cofifin,  and 
with  each  spadeful  the  grave-digger's  terror  grows, 
with  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  the  gradual  per- 
vading, haunting,  of  the  personality  of  the  dead 
miller,  all  about,  till  "the  wind  passes  by  as  though 
it  were  someone,"  and  the  grave-digger  throws 
down  his  spade  and  flees.  After  that,  "total  silence 
comes."     It  is  all,  and  it  is  enough. 

LE  MEUNIER 

Le  vievix  meunier  du  moulin  noir, 
On  renterra,  I'hiver,  tin  soir 
De  froid  rugueux,  de  bise  aigue 
En  tin  terrain  de  cendre  et  de  cigues. 

Le  jour  dardait  sa  clarte  fausse 
Sur  la  beche  du  fossoyeur ; 
Un  chien  errait  pres  de  la  fosse, 
L'aboi  tendu  vers  la  lueur. 

La  beche,  a  chacune  des  pellet6es, 

Telle  un  miroir  se  deplagait, 

Luisait,  mordait  et  s'enfongait, 

Sous  les  terres  violentdes. 

Le  soleil  chut  sous  les  ombres  suspectes. 


32  Six  French  Poets 

Sur  fond  de  ciel,  le  fossoyeur, 

Comme  un  enorme  insecte, 

Semblait  lutter  avec  la  peur ; 

La  beche  entre  ses  mains  tremblait, 

Le  sol  se  crevassait 

Et  quoi  qu'il  fit,  rien  ne  comblait 

Le  trou  qui,  devant  lui, 

Comme  la  nuit,  s'elargissait. 

Au  village  la-bas, 

Personne  au  mort  n'avait  pret6  deux  draps. 

Au  village  la-bas, 

Nul  n'avait  dit  une  pridre. 

Au  village  la-bas, 

Personne  au  mort  n'avait  sonne  le  glas. 

Au  village  la-bas, 

Aucun  n'avait  voulu  clouer  la  bi^re. 

Et  les  maisons  et  les  chaumi^res 
Qui  regardaient  le  cimetiere, 
Pour  ne  point  voir,  etaient  1^  toutes, 
Volets  fermes,  le  long  des  routes. 

Le  fossoyeur  se  sentit  seul 
Devant  ce  defunt  sans  linceul 
Dont  tous  avaient  gardd  la  haine 
Et  la  crainte,  dans  les  veines. 


Emile  Verhaeren  33 


Sur  sa  butte  morne  de  soir, 

Le  vietix  meunier  du  moulin  noir, 

Jadis,  avait  vecu  d'accord 

Avec  I'espace  et  I'etendue 

Et  le  vol  fou  des  tempetes  pendues 

Aux  crins  battants  des  vents  du  Nord ; 

Son  coeur  avait  longuement  ecout6 

Ce  que  les  bouches  d'ombre  et  d'or 

Des  etoiles  devoilent 

Aux  attentifs  d'eternite ; 

Le  desert  gris  des  bruy^res  aust^res 

L'avait  cerne  de  ce  myst^re 

0\i  les  choses  pour  les  ames  s'eveillent 

Et  leur  parlent  et  les  conseillent ; 

Les  grands  courants  qui  traversent  tout  ce  qui  vit 

Etaient,  avec  leur  force,  entres  dans  son  esprit, 

Si  bien  que  par  son  ^me  isolee  et  profonde 

Ce  simple  avait  senti  passer  et  fermenter  le  monde. 

Les  plus  anciens  ne  savaient  pas 

Depuis  quels  jours,  loin  du  village, 

II  perdurait,  la-bas, 

Guettant  I'envol  et  les  voyages 

Et  les  signes  des  feux  dans  les  nuages. 

II  effrayait  par  le  silence 

Dont  il  avait,  sans  bruit, 

Tisse  son  existence ; 

II  effrayait  encor 

Par  les  yeux  d'or 

De  son  moulin  tout  a  coup  clairs,  la  nuit. 


34  -Six  French  Poets 


Et  personne  n'aurait  connu 
Son  agonie  et  puis  sa  mort, 
N'etaient  que  les  quatre  ailes 
Qu'il  agitait  vers  I'inconnu, 
Comme  des  suppliques  eternelles, 
Ne  s'etaient,  un  matin, 
Definitivement  fixees, 
Noires  et  immobilisees, 
Telle  une  croix  sur  un  destin. 

Le  fossoyeur  voyait  I'ombre  et  ses  houles 

Grandir  comme  des  foules 

Et  le  village  et  ses  closes  fenetres 

Se  fondre  au  loin  et  disparaitre. 

L'universelle  inquietude 
Peuplait  de  oris  la  solitude ; 
En  voiles  noirs  et  bruns, 
Le  vent  passait  comme  quelqu'un ; 
Tout  le  vague  des  horizons  hostiles 
Se  precisait  en  frolements  febriles 
Jusqu'au  moment  ou,  les  yeux  fous, 
Jetant  sa  beche  n'importe  ou, 
Avec  les  bras  multiples  de  la  nuit 
En  menaces,  derriere  lui, 
Comme  un  larron,  il  s'encourut. 

Alors, 
Le  silence  se  fit,  total,  par  I'^tendue, 
Le  trou  parut  geant  dans  la  terre  fendue 
Et  rien  ne  bougea  plus ; 


Emile  Verhaeren  35 

Et  seules  les  plaines  inassouvies 

Absorb^rent,  en  leur  immensity 

D 'ombre  et  de  Nord, 

Ce  mort 

Dont  leur  myst^re  avait  illimite 

Et  exalte  jusques  dans  I'infini,  la  vie. 

Very  different  is  Les  Meules  Qui  BrMent.  A 
splendid  impressionist  picture,  with  the  burning 
hay-ricks  starting  up,  one  after  the  other,  out  of  the 
blackness. 

LES  MEULES  QUI  BRULENT 

La  plaine,  au  fond  des  soirs,  s'est  allumee, 
Et  les  tocsins  cassent  leurs  bonds  de  sons, 
Aux  quatre  murs  de  I'horizon. 

—  Une  meule  qui  biiile !  — 

Par  les  sillages  des  chemins,  la  foule, 
Par  les  sillages  des  villages,  la  foule  houle 
Et  dans  les  cours,  les  chiens  de  garde  ululent. 

—  Une  meule  qui  briile !  — 

La  fiamme  ronfle  et  casse  et  broie, 
S'arrache  des  haillons  qu'elle  d^ploie, 
Ou  sinueuse  et  virgulante 
S'enroule  en  chevelure  ardente  ou  lente 


36  Six  French  Poets 

Puis  s'apaise  soudain  et  se  detache 
Et  ruse  et  se  derobe  —  ou  rebondit  encor : 
Et  voici,  clairs,  de  la  boue  et  de  Tor, 
Dans  le  ciel  noir  qui  s'empanache, 

—  Quand  brusquement  una  autre  meule  au  loin  s'allume ! 

EUe  est  immense  —  et  comme  un  trousseau  rouge 

Qu'on  agite  de  sulfureux  serpents, 

Les  feux  —  ils  sont  passants  sur  les  arpents 

Et  les  fermes  et  les  hameaux,  ou  bouge, 

De  vitre  a  vitre,  un  caillot  rouge. 

—  Une  meule  qui  briile  !  — 

Les  champs  ?  ils  s'illimitent  en  frayeurs ; 

Des  frondaisons  de  bois  se  levent  en  lueurs, 

Sur  les  marais  et  les  labours ; 

Des  etalons  cabres,  vers  la  terreur  hennissent ; 

D'enormes  vols  d'oiseaux  s'appesantissent 

Et  choient,  dans  les  brasiers  —  et  des  oris  sourds 

Sortent  du  sol ;  et  c'est  la  mort, 

Toute  la  mort  brandie 

Et  ressurgie,  aux  poings  en  I'air  de  I'incendie. 

Et  le  silence  apres  la  peur  — •  quand,  tout  k  coup,  1^-bas 

Formidable,  dans  le  soir  las, 

Un  feu  nouveau  remplit  les  fonds  du  cr^puscule  ? 

—  Une  meule  qui  brdle !  — 


Emile  Verhaeren  37 

Aux  carrefours,  des  gens  hagards 

Font  des  gestes  hallucines, 

Les  enfants  orient  et  les  vieillards 

Levent  leurs  bras  deracines 

Vers  les  flammes  en  etendards. 

Tandis  qu'au  loin,  obstinement  silencieux, 

Des  fous,  avec  de  la  stupeur  aux  yeux  —  regardent. 

—  Une  meule  qui  brule !  — 

L'air  est  rouge,  le  firmament 

On  le  dirait  defunt,  sinistrement, 

Sous  les  yevix  clos  de  ses  etoiles. 

Le  vent  chasse  des  cailloux  d'or, 

Dans  un  dechirement  de  voiles. 

Le  feu  devient  clameur  hurlee  en  flamme 

Vers  les  echos,  vers  les  la-bas, 

Sur  I'autre  bord,  ou  brusquement  les  au-dela 

Du  fleuve  s'eclairent  comme  un  songe : 

Toute  la  plaine  ?  elle  est  de  braise,  de  mensonge, 

De  sang  et  d'or  —  et  la  tourmente 

Emporte  avec  un  tel  elan. 

La  mort  passagere  du  firmament, 

Que  vers  les  fins  de  I'epouvante, 

Le  del  entier  semble  partir. 

One  strange  thing  about  Verhaeren  is  his  true 
greatness.  No  matter  how  onomatopceic  he  be- 
comes, no  matter  how  much  he  alhterates,  or  what- 
ever other  devices  he  makes  use  of,  he  never  becomes 


38  Six  French  Poets 

claptrap.  Every  young  poet  knows  how  dangerous 
the  methods  I  am  speaking  of  are,  with  what  terrible 
ease  they  give  a  poem  a  meretricious  turn,  and 
immediately  a  certain  vaudevillian  flavour  has 
crept  in.  No  matter  what  Verhaeren  does,  his  work 
remains  great,  and  full  of  what  Matthew  Arnold 
calls  "  high  seriousness."  The  purists  may  rail, 
that  only  shows  how  narrow  the  purists  are.  A 
great  genius  will  disobey  all  rules  and  yet  produce 
works  of  art,  perforce. 

Verhaeren's  message  has  become  so  much  a  part 
of  our  modern  temper  that  we  hardly  realize  how 
new  and  original  it  was  in  poetry  twenty  years  ago. 
Jules  Romain  in  La  Vie  Unanime  has  gone  Ver- 
haeren one  better,  but  would  he  have  been  there  at 
all  if  Verhaeren  had  not  preceded  him  ?  Remy  de 
Gourmont,  over-subtilized  French  intellect  that  he 
is,  thinks  that  Verhaeren  hates  the  groaning  towns, 
the  lonely  villages.  Which  only  proves  that  even 
remarkable  minds  have  their  limitations.  A  brood- 
ing Northerner,  Verhaeren  sees  the  sorrow,  the 
travail,  the  sordidness,  going  on  all  about  him,  and 
loves  the  world  just  the  same,  and  wildly  believes  in 
a  future  in  which  it  shall  somehow  grind  itself  back 
to  beauty.  Les  Villes  Tentaculaires  is  full  of  this 
sordidness,  a  sordidness  overlaid  with  grandeur,  as 
iridescent  colour  plays  over  the  skin  of  a  dying  fish. 
But  it  is  also  full  of  the  constant,  inevitable  pushing 
on,  the  movement,  one  might  call  it,  of  change. 


Emile   Verhaeren  39 

One  poem  from  Les  Villes  Tentaculaires  will  serve 
as  illustration : 

LA  BOURSE 

La  rue  enorme  et  ses  maisons  quadrangulaires 
Bordent  la  foule  et  I'endiguent  de  leur  granit 
CEille  de  fenetres  et  de  porches,  ou  luit 
L'adieu,  dans  les  carreaux,  des  soirs  aureolaires. 

Comme  un  torse  de  pierre  et  de  metal  debout, 

Avec,  en  son  mystere  immonde, 

Le  coeur  battant  et  haletant  du  monde, 

Le  monument  de  I'or,  dans  les  tenebres,  bout. 

Autour  de  lui,  les  banques  noires 

Dressent  des  lourds  frontons  que  soutiennent,  des  bras. 
Les  Hercules  d'airain  dont  les  gros  muscles  las 
Semblent  lever  des  coffres-forts  vers  la  victoire. 

Le  carrefour,  d'ou  il  erige  sa  bataille, 

Suce  la  fievre  et  le  tumulte 

De  chaque  ardeur  vers  son  aimant  occulte ; 

Le  carrefour  et  ses  squares  et  ses  murailles 

Et  ses  grappes  de  gaz  sans  nombre, 

Qui  font  bouger  des  paquets  d'ombre 

Et  de  lueurs,  sur  les  trottoirs. 

Tant  de  reves,  tels  des  feux  roux, 
Entremelent  leur  flamme  et  leurs  remous, 
De  haut  en  bas,  du  palais  fou  ! 
Le  gain  coupable  et  monstrueux 


40  Six  French  Poets 

S'y  resserre,  comme  des  nceucls, 

Et  son  desir  se  dissemine  et  se  propage 

Partant  chauffer  de  seuil  a  seuil, 

Dans  la  ville,  les  contigus  orgueils. 

Les  comptoirs  lourds  grondent  comme  un  orage, 

Les  luxes  gros  se  jalousent  et  r agent 

Et  les  faillites  en  tempetes, 

Soudainement,  a  coups  brutaux, 

Battent  et  chavirent  les  tetes 

Des  grands  bourgeois  monumentaux. 

L'apres-midi,  a  tel  moment, 

La  fidvre  encore  augmente 

Et  penetre  le  monument 

Et  dans  les  murs  fermente. 

On  croit  la  voir  se  raviver  aux  lampes 

Immobiles,  comme  des  hampes, 

Et  se  couler,  de  rampe  en  rampe, 

Et  s'ameuter  et  eclater 

Et  crepiter,  sur  les  paliers 

Et  les  marbres  des  escaliers. 

Une  fureur  r^enflammee 

Au  mirage  d'un  pale  espoir, 

Monte  parfois  de  I'entonnoir 

De  bruit  et  de  fumee, 

On  Ton  se  bat,  a  coups  de  vols,  en  bas. 

Langues  s^ches,  regards  aigus,  gestes  inverses, 

Et  cervelles,  qu'en  tourbillons  les  millions  traversent, 

Echangent  la,  leur  peur  et  leur  terreur. 

La  h^te  y  simule  I'audace 


Emile  Verhaeren  41 

Et  les  audaces  se  depassent ; 
Des  doigts  grattent,  sur  des  ardoises, 
L'affolement  de  leurs  angoisses ; 
Cyniquement,  tel  escompte  I'eclair 
Qui  casse  un  peuple  au  bout  du  monde  ; 
Les  chimeres  sont  volantes  au  clair ; 
Les  chances  fuient  ou  surabondent ; 
Marches  conckis,  marches  rompus 
Luttent  et  s'entrebutent  en  disputes ; 
L'air  brule  —  et  les  chiffres  paradoxaux. 
En  paquets  pleins,  en  lourds  trousseaux, 
Sont  rejetes  et  cahotes  et  ballottes 
Et  s'effarent  en  ces  bagarres, 
Jusqu'a  ce  que  leurs  sommes  lasses, 
Masses  contre  masses, 
Se  cassent. 

Tels  jours,  quand  les  debacles  se  decident, 

La  mort  les  paraphe  de  suicides 

Et  les  chutes  s'effritent  en  mines 

Qui  s'illuminent 

En  obseques  exaltatives. 

Mais,  le  soir  m^me,  aux  heures  blemes, 

Les  volontes,  dans  la  fievre,  revivent ; 

L'acharnement  sournois 

Reprend,  comme  autrefois. 

On  se  trahit,  on  se  sourit  et  Ton  se  mord 
Et  Ton  travaille  a  d'autres  morts. 
La  haine  ronfle,  ainsi  qu'une  machine, 
Autour  de  -ceux  qu'elle  assassine. 


42  Six  French  Poets 

On  vole,  avec  autorite,  les  gens 

Dont  les  avoirs  sont  indigents. 

On  m^le  avec  I'honneur  I'escroquerie, 

Pour  amorcer  jusqu'aux  patries 

Et  ameuter  vers  Tor  torride  et  infamant, 

L'universel  affolement. 

Oh  I'or !  1^-bas,  comme  des  tours  dans  les  nuages, 

Comme  des  tours,  sur  I'etagere  des  mirages, 

L'or  enorme  !  comme  des  tours,  la-bas, 

Avec  des  millions  de  bras  vers  lui, 

Et  des  gestes  et  des  appels  la  nuit 

Et  la  pri^re  unanime  qui  gronde, 

De  I'un  a  1 'autre  bout  des  horizons  du  monde ! 

La-bas  !  des  cubes  d'or  sur  des  triangles  d'or 
Et  tout  autour  les  fortunes  celebres 
S'echafaudant  sur  des  algebres. 

De  l'or  !  —  boire  et  manger  de  l'or  ! 

Et,  plus  feroce  encor  que  la  rage  de  l'or, 

La  foi  au  jeu  mysterieux 

Et  ses  hasards  hagards  et  tenebreux 

Et  ses  arbitraires  vouloirs  certains 

Qui  restaurent  le  vieux  destin ; 

Le  jeu,  axe  terrible,  oii  toumera  autour  de  I'aventure, 

Par  seul  plaisir  d'anomalie, 

Par  seul  besoin  de  rut  et  de  folie, 

L^-bas,  ou  se  croisent  les  lois  d'effroi 

Et  les  supreraes  desarrois, 

EperdHment,  la  passion  future. 


r 

Emile  Verhaeren  43 


Comme  un  torse  de  pierre  et  de  metal  debout, 

Avec,  en  son  mystere  immonde, 

Le  cceur  battant  et  haletant  du  monde, 

Le  monument  de  Tor  dans  les  tenebres  bout. 

The  dramatic  intensity  of  this  poem  equals  that 
of  Le  Meunier.  And  this  is  \'erhaeren's  third  great 
gift :  the  dramatic.  I  have  already  spoken  of  his 
visualizing  gift,  of  his  power  of  reproducing  sound 
in  words ;  the  third  side  of  his  greatness  is  the  sense 
of  drama.  In  spite  of  the  decoration  in  La  Bourse, 
in  spite  of  such  lines,  beautiful  in  themselves,  as 

La-bas  !  des  cubes  d'or  sur  des  triangles  d'or, 
Et  tout  autour  les  fortunes  celebres 
S'echafaudant  sur  des  algebres. 


^b^ 


—  beautiful,  but  painfully  prone  to  stick  out  of  a 
poem  like  knobs  on  an  embossed  wall-paper — the 
poet  has  managed  to  keep  them  in  their  place,  so 
that  they  do  not  interfere,  but  rather  add  to  the 
drama  of  the  whole. 

Verhaeren  is  not  a  didactic  poet.  He  does  not 
suggest  a  way  out.  He  states,  and  hopes,  and 
firmly  belie^^es  ;  that  is  all.  And  always  remember, 
in  thinking  of  Verhaeren's  work  in  the  light  of  his 
philosophy,  that  he  is  first  of  all  an  artist,  a  painter, 
and  he  must  always  take  a  painter's  delight  in  pure 
painting.  For  those  people  who  prefer  a  more  clear, 
more  classic  style  of  poetry,  Verhaeren  has  no  charm. 


^^4  •^'^x:  French  Poets 

He  is  nebulous  and  redundant.  His  colours  are 
bright  and  vague  like  flash-lights  thrown  on  a  fog. 
But  his  force  is  incontestable,  and  he  hurls  along 
upon  it  in  a  whirlwind  of  extraordinary  poetry. 

Of  Verhaeren's  life  from  now  on,  there  is  little  to 
say.  He  is  a  poet,  and  a  poet's  life  is  in  creating 
poems.  On  his  return  to  Belgium,  he  threw  himself 
into  active  life  and  was  immediately  seduced  by  the 
Socialist  doctrines  then  just  being  felt  in  Belgium. 
He  seconded  M.  Vandevelde  and  others  in  starting 
a  democratic  movement,  and  went  so  far  as  to  be- 
come a  member  of  the  "Comite  de  la  Maison  du 
Peuple."  How  long  he  kept  up  this  active  life  in 
Belgium  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  out,  nor  why 
he  abandoned  it ;  but  now  he  spends  his  Winters  at 
Saint  Cloud,  returning  to  Belgium  for  the  Summers. 
Of  course,  I  mean  that  was  what  he  did  before  the  war. 

That  Verhaeren  must  have  married  sometime 
before  1896  is  clear,  because  Les  Heures  Claires, 
published  in  that  year,  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  love 
poems,  of  which  Les  Heures  de  V Apres-midi,  published 
in  1905,  and  Les  Heures  du  Soir,  published  in  191 1, 
are  the  other  volumes. 

Verhaeren's  love  story  has  evidently  been  tran- 
quil and  happy.  The  poems  are  very  sweet  and 
graceful,  but  it  must  be  confessed  not  of  extreme 
importance.  They  are  all  written  in  regular  metre, 
which  seems  almost  typical  of  their  calm  and  un- 
original  flow.     Verhaeren  does  not  belong  to   the 


Entile  Verhaeren  45 

type  of  man  to  whom  love  is  a  divine  adventure. 
He  has  regarded  it  as  a  beneficent  haven  in  which 
to  repair  himself  for  new  departures.  No  biographer 
mentions  who  Madame  Verhaeren  was,  or  anything 
about  her,  except  to  pay  her  the  tribute  of  under- 
standing and  cherishing  a  great  man.  That  she 
has  been  a  helpmeet  to  him  in  every  way  these  poems 
prove. 

We  have  reached  the  last  stage  of  Verhaeren's 
career.  The  stage  of  powers  ripening,  growing, 
solidifying.  His  part  is  taken ;  he  has  learnt  his 
peculiar  medium,  and  formulated  his  ideas.  His 
final  volumes,  many  though  they  are,  merely  show 
him  writing  still  remarkable  poems  along  the  lines 
he  has  chosen.  There  is  no  diminution  of  his 
genius,  and  his  fecundity  Is  extraordinary.  In 
1899,  appeared  Les  Visages  de  la  Vie  ;  in  1902,  Les 
Forces  Tumidtueuses  ;  In  1906,  La  Multiple  Splen- 
deur ;  in  19 10,  Les  Rhythmes  Souverains ;  and  in 
191 3,  Les  Bles  Mouvants.  Four  volumes  of  poems 
entitled  Toute  la  Flandre,  appeared  at  Intervals 
from  1901  to  1909.  And  there  are  one  or  two  other 
small  volumes.  Remember,  \'erhaeren  has  written 
twenty- three  volumes  of  poems,  and  to  speak  of 
them  all  in  detail  would  require  an  entire  volume. 

I  only  wish  it  were  possible  to  give  something 
from  each  of  these  books.  But  I  must  content  myself 
with  one  more  quotation  from  his  last  book,  Les 
Bles  Mouvants,     It  will  show  that  Verhaeren  has 


46  Six  French  Poets 

lost  nothing  of  his  great  vigour,  and  that  the  rage 
for  justice  which  made  him  a  socialist  still  burns  in 
him. 

ALLEZ-VOUS-EN 

Allez-vous-en,  allez-vous-en 
L'auberge  entiere  est  aux  passants. 

—  Elle  est  a  nous,  elle  est  a  nous, 
Depuis  bientot  trois  cents  annees. 
Elle  est  a  nous,  elle  est  a  nous, 
Depuis  la  porte  aux  longs  verrous 
Jusqu'aux  faites  des  chemin^es. 

—  Allez-vous-en,  allez-vous-en, 
L'auberge  entiere  est  aux  passants. 

—  Nous  en  savons,  nous  en  savons, 
Les  mines  et  les  lezardes, 

Mais  c'est  nous  seuls  qui  pretendons 

En  remplacer  les  vietix  moellons 

Des  bords  du  seuil  jusqu'aux  mansardes. 

—  Allez-vous-en,  allez-vous-en, 
L'auberge  entiere  est  aux  passants. 

—  Nous  venerons  ceux  qui  sont  morts 
Au  fond  de  leurs  cercueils  de  chene, 
Nous  envions  ceux  qui  sont  morts 
Sans  se  douter  des  cris  de  haine 

Qui  bondissent  de  plaine  en  plaine. 


Emile  Verhaeren  47 

—  Allez-vous-en,  allez-vous-en, 
L'auberge  entidre  est  aux  passants. 

—  C'est  notre  droit,  c'est  notre  droit, 
D'orner  notre  enseigne  d'un  Aigle ; 
C'est  notre  droit,  c'est  notre  droit, 
De  poSseder  selon  les  lois 

Plus  qu'il  ne  faut  d'orge  et  de  seigle. 

—  Allez-vous-en,  allez-vous-en, 
Gestes  et  mots  ne  sont  plus  rien. 
Allez-vous-en,  allez-vous-en, 

Et  sachez  bien 
Que  notre  droit,  c'est  notre  faim. 

What  Verhaeren  has  done  for  poetry  is  this.  He 
has  made  it  realize  the  modern  world.  He  has 
shown  the  grandeur  of  everyday  life,  and  made  us 
understand  that  science  and  art  are  never  at  variance. 
He  has  shown  that  civic  consciousness  is  not  neces- 
sarily dry  and  sterile,  but  can  be  as  romantic  as  an 
individual.  And  he  has  done  all  this  without  once 
saying  it  directly,  by  force  of  the  greatest  and  most 
complete  art. 


ALBERT  SAMAIN 


ALBERT   SAMAIN 

This  chapter  will  be  very  different  from  the  last 
one.  Then  we  were  engaged  with  a  great  poet.  A 
man  of  large  and  exuberant  nature,  whose  work 
was  remarkable  for  its  originality,  force,  dramatic 
power,  and  fecundity.  Now  we  are  going  to  con- 
sider a  minor  poet  of  delicate  and  graceful  talent, 
whose  entire  poetical  output  is  contained  in  three 
volumes.  It  is  chamber-music,  as  tenuous  and 
plaintive  as  that  played  by  old  eighteenth  century 
orchestras,  with  their  viole  da  gamba  and  haut- 
bois  d'amour.  Albert  Samain  would  seem  to  lack 
his  century,  were  it  not  that  one  cannot  help  feeling 
that  in  no  century  would  the  shy,  solitary,  diffident 
man  have  been  at  home.  Centuries  are  strangely 
alike  for  those  living  them,  they  only  change  their 
values  when  their  outlines  are  blurred  by  distance. 
The  qualities  which  make  a  man  great  are  the  same 
in  all  ages.  Samain  would  have  been  a  minor  poet 
in  the  ninth  century  as  he  was  in  the  nineteenth. 

In  the  biography  of  the  poet  by  Leon  Bocquet,  there 
is  a  preface  by  Francis  Jammes.     He  says  :    "Albert 

SI 


52  Six  French  Poets 

Samain's  forehead  wrinkled  like  my  mother's  — 
from  the  bottom  up.  His  arm  had  the  elegant  ges- 
ture of  a  stork  which  moves  its  foot  backward.  His 
face  and  body  were  slender.  At  times  his  blue 
eyes,  behind  his  glasses,  became  heavenly,  that  is 
to  say  they  looked  up  and  whitened.  .  .  .  Albert 
Samain  was  a  swan.  I  am  hardly  expressing  myself 
figuratively  here.  He  had  the  harmonious  stiffness 
and  the  gaze  of  a  swan.  Not  the  sharp,  furious, 
wounded  gaze  of  the  bird  of  prey,  but  the  impassive 
gaze  of  the  sacred  bird  which  flies,  in  high  relief,  on 
the  frieze  of  some  temple,  the  gaze  which  only  re- 
flects the  appearance  of  things  floating  away  beneath 
it  in  the  water  of  the  stream.  He  had  the  cold  and 
sad  attitude  of  the  swan  too.  Swan,  the  friend  of 
shade.  I  see  him,  sailing,  spread  out,  over  the  lake 
in  Le  Jardin  de  l' Infante.  .  .  .  He  does  not 
listen  to  the  whispers  of  this  splendour  which  he 
himself  has  created,  nor  to  the  rising  sea  of  his 
fame.  He  only  listens  to  the  bells  of  a  church  which 
ring  in  the  distance — I  do  not  know  where,  in  a 
country  which  is  not  mine,  in  a  country  where  the 
things  are  which  one  does  not  see.  He  only  hears 
the  chimes  of  this  Flemish  church,  of  this  church  in 
which  an  old  woman  is  praying."  Whether  by  this 
old  woman  Francis  Jammes  means  Samain's  mother, 
to  whom  the  poet  gave  a  lifelong  devotion,  or 
whether  it  is  merely  figurative,  I  cannot  say.  But 
the  whole  description,  fanciful  though  it  is,  gives  a 


Albert  Samain  53 

better  picture  of  the  man  than  pages  of  biography 
and  straightforward  analysis  could  do. 

Samain  is  said  to  have  looked  like  a  Spaniard, 
and  certainly  his  photographs  might  be  those  of 
some  Spanish  grandee ;  there  is  the  haughty,  spare 
figure  of  the  Spaniard,  and  the  sad,  proud  face  of 
slender  lines.  We  must  not  forget  that  Flanders 
was  for  some  time  owned  by  Spain,  and  that  Lille 
only  became  a  part  of  France  in  1667,  when  Louis 
XIV  besieged  it  and  forced  it  to  surrender.  Now^, 
Albert- Victor  Samain  was  born  in  Lille  on  the  third 
of  April,  1858. 

His  family  were  Flemish,  and  from  time  im- 
memorial had  lived  in  the  town  or  its  suburbs,  so 
that  Samain's  Spanish  appearance  was  probably  no 
mere  accident,  but  the  result  of  a  remote  heredity. 
His  family  belonged  to  the  large  class  of  the  minor 
bourgeoisie.  At  the  time  of  his  birth,  his  father, 
Jean-Baptiste  Samain,  and  his  mother,  Elisa-Hen- 
riette  Mouquet,  conducted  a  business  in  "wines  and 
spirits"  at  75  rue  de  Paris.  Some  distant  ancestral 
strain  seems  to  have  had  more  effect  upon  Samain 
than  his  immediate  surroundings ;  certainly,  the 
ancestor  who  gave  him  his  figure  and  colouring  seems 
to  have  given  him  his  character  also,  for  no  trace  of 
the  influences  which  usually  mould  the  small  shop- 
keeper's son  to  fit  his  father's  routine  are  visible  in 
him. 

This  is  the  more  surprising,  as  all  the  ease  and 


54  Six  French  Poets 

assurance  which  he  might  have  derived  from  his 
father's  owning  his  own  business  were  promptly 
swept  away  by  the  death  of  his  father  when  he  was 
fourteen.  At  this  time,  Samain  was  in  the  third 
class  in  the  Lycee  at  Lille.  His  father's  death  found 
him  the  eldest  of  three  children,  with  a  widowed 
mother  whom  he  must  help  to  support  the  family. 
Noblesse  oblige,  whether  another  trait  of  his  Spanish 
ancestor  or  merely  derived  from  the  fine  thriftiness 
of  the  French  bourgeoisie,  was  always  strong  in 
Samain.  He  left  school  and  entered  the  office  of  a 
banker,  where  he  seems  to  have  held  the  position  of 
errand-boy.  From  there  he  went  into  the  business 
of  sugar-broking,  in  what  capacity  is  not  stated, 
but  it  would  seem  to  have  been  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ladder,  as  was  natural  at  his  age.  That  the  work 
was  very  hard  is  evident,  for  Samain  says :  "I  was 
very  miserable  there  for  many  years,  working  from 
half-past  eight  in  the  morning  until  eight  at  night, 
and  on  Sundays  until  two." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Samain  began  to  lead 
the  life  of  a  solitary,  which  after  that  he  never  suc- 
ceeded in  shaking  off.  In  spite  of  his  twelve  hours 
of  work  there  were  off  times  —  the  twelve  other  hours, 
only  some  of  which  could  be  spent  in  sleep  ;  and  the 
Sunday  afternoons.  A  provincial  town  offers  very 
little  in  the  way  of  amusement  to  an  intelligent 
young  man.  Samain  was  hardly  the  sort  of  fellow 
to  enjoy  cock-fights,  or  find  pleasure  in  lounging  in 


Albert  Samain  55 

cafes  ogling  the  passers-by.  There  was  the  Museum, 
but  museums  do  not  last  forever  as  an  inspiring 
relaxation,  and  for  a  young  fellow  of  eighteen  or 
thereabouts  wandering  round  a  museum  is  usually 
a  lonely  joy.  The  boys  with  whom  he  had  gone 
to  school  had  passed  on  to  the  University ;  and 
besides,  what  could  they  have  to  do  with  an  under- 
clerk  in  a  business  house !  Samain  was  too  proud 
to  push  against  cold  shoulders.  He  simply  with- 
drew more  and  more  into  himself,  and  laid  the 
foundation  for  that  sadness  from  which  he  could 
never  afterwards  entirely  free  himself. 

If  circumstances  separated  him  from  his  old 
schoolfellows,  his  tastes  (and  also  his  taste)  re- 
moved him  from  his  fellow  clerks.  A  single  friend 
he  made,  however  —  a  M.  Victor  Lemoigne.  This 
man  not  only  was  his  friend,  he  believed  in  him,  a 
precious  necessity  to  a  young  writer.  For  Samain 
at  last  confided  to  him  that  he  wrote  verses.  It 
must  have  been  the  greatest  comfort  to  tell  some- 
body, for  Samain  had  been  writing  in  silence  and 
solitude  for  some  time.  But  he  had  not  only  been 
writing,  he  had  been  training  himself  for  a  writer, 
and  in  that  best  of  all  methods,  studying  foreign 
tongues. 

If  there  were  no  amusements  in  Lille,  there  was 
at  least  a  library.  And  in  the  absence  of  any  other 
distractions  Samain  spent  long  hours  there.  Per- 
haps it  was  lucky  that  nothing  else  exerted  a  strong 


56  Six  French  Poets 

enough  pull  to  make  his  going  there  in  the  least 
difficult.  He  studied,  and  endeavoured  to  complete 
his  arrested  education.  Of  course,  he  read  rather 
vaguely,  as  people  do  without  a  teacher,  but  he 
succeeded  in  perfecting  himself  in  Greek  and  Eng- 
lish so  that  he  could  read  them  both  fluently.  He 
delighted  in  English,  and  afterwards  liked  to  give 
his  poems  English  titles,  and  put  English  words 
into  the  middle  of  them.  Edgar  Allan  Poe  was  one 
of  his  greatest  admirations  and  inspirations.  Years 
after  he  wrote:  "I  have  been  reading  Poe  this 
week.  Decidedly,  he  must  be  classed  among  the 
greatest.  The  power  of  his  conceptions,  the  mag- 
nificence of  his  hypotheses,  the  marv^ellous  force  of 
his  imagination,  always  contained  and  held  in  check 
by  an  extraordinary  will,  make  him  an  almost 
unique  figure  in  art.  ...  If  the  word  perfection 
can  ever  be  used,  it  is  in  such  a  case." 

Fortunately  for  Samain,  and  for  us,  Lemoigne 
was  sympathetic  and  enthusiastic.  He  liked  the 
poems  which  Samain  showed  him,  and  at  once  de- 
cided that  the  young  man  was  sure  of  a  glorious 
future. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  these  over-confident  and 
admiring  friends  do  a  young  wTiter  as  much  good 
as  harm.  Adverse  or  carping  criticism  often  dis- 
courages to  the  point  of  sterilization,  while  even 
ill-judged  praise  gives  confidence  and  the  strength 
to  go  on.     In  a  man  of  Samain's  diffident  tempera- 


Albert  Saniain  57 

ment,  such  full-blooded  encouragement  must  have 
been  of  the  greatest  value.  But,  as  the  desire  to 
learn,  to  talk,  to  mix  in  an  intellectual  life,  grew 
upon  him,  more  and  more  did  Samain  find  the  life 
of  a  little  clerk  in  the  provinces  insupportable.  It 
is  truer  of  France  than  of  any  other  country-  that 
its  capital  is  the  centre  of  its  entire  intellectual  life. 
Samain  had  paid  a  flying  visit  to  Paris  in  1878,  to 
see  the  Exposition.  Even  more  than  at  ordinan,- 
times,  the  Paris  of  an  Exposition  year  dazzles,  and 
snaps,  and  glows.  After  his  return  to  the  wearisome 
dulness  of  Lille,  Samain  thought  of  it  as  the  Mecca 
of  all  his  dreams.  It  lured  like  the  Pot  of  Gold  at 
the  end  of  the  Rainbow.  As  luck  would  ha\"e  it.  in 
July,  1880,  his  firm  decided  to  send  him  to  its  Paris 
house.  He  was  to  be  only  a  transient  addition, 
but  he  intended  to  stay  if  he  could,  and  on  express- 
ing this  wish  to  his  superiors  it  was  acceded  to,  and 
his  salary  raised  to  2400  francs  a  year. 

It  might  seem  now  as  though  things  were  at  last 
coming  Samain's  way.  Here  he  was.  transplanted 
to  Paris,  and  with  the  exciting  possibilitA'  of  having 
some  famous  literar\'  celebrity^  living  just  round  the 
comer.  But  in  cities  like  Paris,  "round  the  corner" 
might  just  as  well  be  across  the  Channel.  Albert 
Samain  was  living  in  Paris,  which,  as  a  thought,  must 
have  given  him  considerable  satisfaction  ;  but  the 
satisfaction  began  and  ended  in  the  realms  of  the 
idea. 


58  Six  French  Poets 

He  knew  nobody ;  he  had  no  introductions ;  and 
his  hours  were  longer  than  in  Lilie,  Now,  he  was 
at  his  office  from  nine  in  the  morning  until  after 
midnight.  Only  once  or  twice  a  week  did  he  even 
have  some  hours  of  freedom  in  the  evening.  And 
then  there  was  no  energy  left  to  do  any  good  work. 

So  Samain  lived  in  Paris  more  solitarily  than  he 
had  done  in  Lille,  for  there  was  no  M.  Lemoigne 
there.  And  he  could  not  work  so  well  because  he 
had  less  time.  They  were  not  cheerful  letters 
which  he  sent  back  to  M.  Lemoigne.  They  were 
bitter,  discouraged  letters.  He  must  change  his 
business,  there  was  no  other  way ;   but  to  what  ? 

The  faithful  Lemoigne  was  instant  in  suggestion. 
His  friend  must  try  journalism  ;  and,  succeeding  in 
that,  have  leisure  for  greater  literary  effort.  It 
must  have  been  a  constant  strain  for  Lemoigne  to 
push  his  friend  along,  and  his  patience  and  effort 
were  remarkable.  Samain  always  held  back,  and 
was  discouraged  before  he  began.  But  Lemoigne 
firmly  insisted.  Poor  Samain  hastily  wrote  a  paper 
on  Offenbach  and  took  It  to  the  Figaro.  It  was  not 
liked.  Then  he  wrote  to  the  editors  of  Gil  Bias, 
and  the  Beaumarchais.  His  letters  were  not  an- 
swered. So  that  seemed  to  be  an  end  to  journalism 
in  Paris. 

Samain  was  willing  to  give  it  up.  Lemoigne  was 
not.  If  Paris  would  not  see  his  friend's  genius, 
Lille  should.     Really  Lemoigne's  unswerving  faith 


Albert  Samain  59 

is  very  beautiful,  and  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  realize 
how  abundantly  it  was  justified. 

There  was  at  this  time  in  Lille  a  weekly  called 
Le  Bonhomme  Flamand.  It  amounted  to  very  little, 
as,  of  course,  Lemoigne  knew,  but  Samain  must  be 
printed.  And  two  little  stories  of  Samain's  did 
appear  in  it  signed  Gry-Pearl,  for  Samain  was  afraid 
of  the  amusement  of  his  friends  if  he  signed  his  own 
name.  The  quasi-English  flavour  of  the  pseudonym 
is  interesting.  Shortly  afterwards,  Le  Bonhomme 
Flamand  died  a  natural  death.  The  editor  of  an- 
other Lille  paper  annoyed  Samain  by  chopping  up 
one  of  the  latter's  articles  to  suit  himself,  so  Samain 
refused  to  send  any  more,  and  forced  M.  Lemoigne 
to  approve.  Here  ended  Samain's  attempt  to  push 
open  the  doors  of  journalism,  if  we  except  two 
articles  in  an  unknown  gazette,  and  a  little  piece  in 
Ulllustration.  Samain  slipped  back  to  his  old 
solitary  life,  writing  for  himself  alone. 

In  July,  1 88 1,  Mme.  Samain  joined  her  son  in 
Paris.  And  from  this  time  on  they  were  never 
separated.  Even  among  Frenchmen,  whose  affec- 
tion for  their  mothers  has  become  a  proverb,  Samain's 
love  for,  and  care  of,  his  is  extraordinary.  For  her 
sake  he  never  married ;  his  salary  was  not  enough 
to  support  two  women. 

Later,  his  youngest  brother  Paul  joined  them ; 
Alice,  his  sister,  remaining  behind  in  Lille  where 
she  had  married.     It  was  a  quiet,  family  life  they 


6o  Six  French  Poeis 

lived  in  the  little  apartment,  rue  des  Petits-Champs. 
It  was  a  safe,  excellent  life  for  a  rising  young  clerk, 
sure  of  stepping  up  in  his  business  from  position  to 
higher  position,  and  tinally  attaining  to  a  business  of 
his  own.  But  for  a  poet,  how  petty,  how  exacting ! 
How  painful  to  wear\-  the  brain  all  da>"  ^^ith  figures 
so  that  at  night  it  cannot  hnd  words!  Weak  in 
many  wa\'s  though  Saniain  was.  he  ne\"er  \ya\'ered 
in  his  hmi  resolution  to  write.  If  he  could  only 
gain  enough  to  keep  his  mother  he  would  be  satished  ; 
for  himself  he  only  demanded  a  less  fatiguing  work, 
with  more  leisure.  He  watched,  and  watched,  until 
he  found  something.  And  what  he  found  was  a 
small  clerkship  in  the  third  bureau  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Instrtiction.  with  a  salary  of  iSoo  francs  a 
^•ear.  In  spite  of  suggestions  and  offers  from  his 
firm,  he  took  it  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
And  it  speaks  excellently  for  Mme.  SamaIn  that  she 
apparently  bore  him  no  ill-\\-ill  for  so  materially 
cutting  down  their  income. 

The  change  was  undoubtedly  a  good  thing  for 
Samain.  He  was  only  obliged  to  be  at  his  desk  for 
seven  hours  a  day,  his  colleagues  were  men  of  better 
education  than  those  in  the  sugar  house,  and  finding 
a  copy  of  Boileau  open  upon  the  table  of  his  chief 
gave  him  the  feeling  of  being  in  a  sympathetic 
atmosphere.  But  still,  taking  ever\'thing  by  and 
large.  Samain  could  not  feel  very  successful.  He 
had  left  Lille,  true ;   he  had  got  rid  of  the  detested 


Albert  Samain  6i 

sugar-broking ;  he  was  definitely  settled  in  Paris. 
And  there  was  an  end  to  his  achievements.  In  a 
letter  written  much  later,  he  says:  "At  twenty-five 
years  old,  without  the  slightest  exaggeration,  I  had 
not  a  single  literary  friend  or  acquaintance.  My 
only  relations  were  with  young  men  belonging  to  the 
business  world." 

He  had  made  three  wild  da.shes  into  the  world  of 
letters.  The  momentary,  hazarding  exploits  of  a 
very  young  man.  From  his  boyhood  he  had  fed 
upon  the  Romantics ;  Lamartine,  Hugo,  and  Musset 
had  been  his  gods.  Two  of  these  giants  being  un- 
happily dead  and  the  third  a  very  old  man,  he  wor- 
shipped their  belated  shadows  :  Theodore  de  Banville 
and  Jean  Richepin.  He  sent  a  letter  with  an  en- 
thusiastic ode  to  Banville,  but  the  visit  which  Banville 
invited  him  to  make  in  return  was  unfortunate  in 
the  extreme.  Banville  carped  and  criticised,  and 
Samain  took  flight  never  to  go  back  again.  Twice 
more,  Samain  was  so  ill-judged  as  to  tempt  Fate  in 
this  way.  He  sent  letters  to  both  Jean  Richepin  and 
Octave  Feuillet.  Both  asked  him  to  call,  possibly 
the  visits  were  repeated  more  than  once,  but  they 
had  no  result.  Samain  was  tasting  the  bitter  lesson, 
that  fecund  intimacies  fall  from  the  lap  of  the  gods, 
and  are  never  the  result  of  painstaking  endeavour. 

Samain  gave  up  seeking  access  to  celebrities  and 
went  back  to  his  writing,  still  worshipping  the  dead 
authors  who  had  not  snubbed  him,  and  writing  dans 


62  Six  French  Poets 

le  gout  d'avant-hier.  But,  though  Samain,  alone  in 
the  quiet  lamplit  evenings,  still  bowed  before  the 
old  shrines,  other  young  men  were  more  adventurous. 
Various  hot  bloods  got  up  a  society,  or  rather  they 
organized  a  group,  and  called  it  Nous  Autres.  They 
met  at  a  cabaret  in  Montmartre,  and  drank  bocks,  and 
disputed  theories  of  art  and  letters,  and  undoubtedly 
damned  every  one  who  was  not  themselves,  after  the 
manner  of  young  artists.  By  and  by,  they  changed 
cabarets,  going  to  Le  Chat  Noir,  and  made  it  famous 
by  their  presence.  A  kind  of  vaudeville  show  was 
given  there,  and  a  series  of  silhouette  plays,  in  a 
little  puppet  theatre,  by  Henri  Riviere  had  a  great 
vogue.  On  occasions,  at  the  end  of  an  evening,  the 
young  writers  read  their  poems  aloud  and  had  their 
angles  rubbed  off  by  one  another's  criticism.  A 
friend  took  Samain  to  one  of  these  gatherings,  and 
he  soon  became  an  habitue.  He  read  a  part  of  his 
poem,  Les  Monts,  there.  He  also  read  Tsilla,  and 
Laurent  Tailhade  and  Jean  Lorrain  applauded  him. 
Le  Chat  Noir  had  a  little  paper,  and  in  the  copy  of 
it  for  December,  1884,  Tsilla  appeared  on  the  front 
page.  Tsilla  was  apparently  liked  and  praised  by 
the  frequenters  of  Le  Chat  Noir,  and  Samain  wrote 
a  satisfied  and  happy  letter  to  M.  Lemoigne  on  the 
strength  of  it.  Rather  pathetically  he  tells  how  he 
has  been  praised  for  the  healthy  quality  of  his 
verses,  and  hopes  that  he  will  be  able  to  avoid  the 
maladive  contagion  of  the  period. 


Albert  Samain  63 

To  my  mind,  Tsilla  is  one  of  the  dullest  poems 
that  ever  was  written,  and  gives  no  hint  of  the 
charm  of  some  of  his  later  work.  It  is  the  story  of  a 
young  girl  of  antiquity  (that  charming  and  con- 
venient antiquity  so  beloved  of  poets,  which  never 
existed  anywhere,  at  any  time),  who  loves  an  Angel. 
In  a  crisis  of  adventurousness,  she  urges  the  Angel 
to  fly  up  in  the  sky,  taking  her  with  him,  which  he 
does,  and  they  go  so  near  to  the  rising  sun  that  her 
black  hair  is  turned  to  gold.  Owing  to  which  acci- 
dent, she  is  the  first  woman  in  the  world  who  ever 
had  blond  hair.  The  verses  are  no  more  interesting 
nor  original  than  the  story. 

If  praise  of  such  an  insignificant  poem  had  been 
all  that  Samain  got  out  of  his  cenacle  of  young 
poets,  his  frequenting  it  would  have  been  a  mere 
waste  of  time.  But  it  was  not  all.  He  got  a  com- 
plete upheaval  of  ideas.  He  learnt  that  Lamartine 
and  Victor  Hugo  were  vieux  jeu,  that  Frangois 
Coppee  was  not  the  last  word  in  poetry  to  these 
young  iconoclasts.  He  learnt  that  Verlaine  and 
Mallarme  were  the  proper  objects  of  worship  for  an 
up-to-date  poet.  Any  one  who  has  listened  to  a  set 
of  young  writers  tearing  down  the  generation  which 
has  preceded  them,  showing  up  all  the  faults  it  never 
knew  it  had,  and  sneering  at  the  good  points  it 
undoubtedly  has,  can  reproduce  these  evenings 
perfectly.  But  Samain  was  a  young  provincial. 
All  this  talk  disturbed  him.     This  familiar  scoffing 


64  Six  French  Poets 

at  names  he  considered  the  greatest  in  the  world 
unsettled  him.  What  should  he  do  ?  Whom  should 
he  follow?  For  Samain  must  follow,  he  was  as 
incapable  of  leadership  as  a  man  could  well  be. 
He  did  follow  a  little  way,  but  only  a  little  way  — 
gingerly,  lilce  one  stepping  over  a  slippery  bridge 
and  clinging  tightly  to  a  hand-rail. 

It  is  easy  to  be  an  iconoclast  in  French  poetry. 
The  classic  metres  are  so  exceedingly  prescribed  and 
confined  that  the  least  little  change  lands  one  in 
nonconformity.  But  for  us,  living  more  than  thirty 
years  after  the  period  I  am  speaking  of,  for  us  who 
are  accustomed  to  the  innovations  of  the  vers  libristes, 
Samain's  tentative  efforts  at  modernity  of  form  have 
become  almost  invisible.  We  can  find  them  if  we 
hunt,  but  to  the  naked  perception  they  are  lost  in 
the  general  effect  of  conformity  to  metrical  rules. 
Yet,  to  Samain,  his  not  always  putting  the  caesura 
in  the  middle  of  the  line,  or  failing  to  alternate  mas- 
culine and  feminine  endings,  or  occasionally  rhyming 
plurals  with  singulars  (all  unalterable  rules  of 
French  classic  metre),  must  have  seemed  violent 
innovations  indeed. 

The  meetings  at  Le  Chat  Noir  did  not  only  affect 
Samain's  technical  habit,  they  affected  his  ideas 
about  everything,  even,  and  most,  his  religion. 
Brought  up  a  Catholic,  he  had  hitherto  never 
doubted  his  faith ;  now  it  tumbled  off  him  like  a 
shrivelled  leaf.     Scepticism,  a  state  of  mind  pecul- 


Albert  Samain  65 

iarly  unsulted  to  his  temperament,  swept  over  him. 
The  reaHzation  that  he  had  lost  the  support  of 
rehgion,  that  its"  consolations  could  no  longer  com- 
fort him,  was  agony.  The  idea,  the  resultant  void, 
preoccupied  him.  He  could  no  longer  write,  he 
could  only  worry  and  mourn.  This  was  particularly 
unfortunate  as  he  was  at  the  moment  composing  the 
poems  which  afterwards  made  up  Au  Jardm  de 
V Infante,  his  first  volume,  which  was  not  published 
until  six  years  later.  The  sapping  of  his  vitality 
by  doubt  naturally  lasted  longer  with  a  man  of 
Samain's  gentle  and  resigned  disposition  than  it  does 
with  people  of  bolder  characters. 

In  his  state  of  mind,  the  hilarious  and  not  over- 
refined  pleasures  of  the  literary  cabarets  were  most 
distasteful.  He  was  too  straightforward  and  simple 
himself  not  to  see  through  the  poses  and  childish 
debauches  of  his  coterie.  He  withdrew  from  it,  and 
retired  once  more  within  himself.  But  he  was  lonely, 
bitterly  lonely.  His  brother  Paul  had  been  called  to 
his  military  service,  and  once  more  he  and  his  mother 
lived  alone.  His  modest  income  of  1800  francs  w^as 
not  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  think  of  marriage 
while  he  still  had  his  mother  to  support.  Whether 
Samain  ever  had  a  definite  love  story  is  not  known. 
It  seems  hardly  possible  for  him  to  have  escaped  such 
a  usual  happening ;  but,  at  any  rate,  whether  it  was 
a  particular  woman  whom  he  gave  up,  or  whether  he 
merely  resigned  himself  to  bachelorhood  in  the  ab- 


66  Six  French  Poets 

stract,  certain  it  is  that  Samain  felt  his  life  bor- 
dered and  arranged,  and  that  he  looked  forward 
to  no  bright  happening  to  change  it.  Mme. 
Samain  adored  him  and  was  proud  of  him,  but 
from  his  reticence  about  his  work  at  home,  she 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  fitted,  either  by  edu- 
cation or  natural  ability,  to  be  much  of  a  help  to 
him  in  it. 

Only  seven  hours  a  day  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and 
the  rest  of  the  time  his  own!  That  "rest  of  the 
time,"  which  was  to  have  been  filled  with  the  work 
he  could  not  do.  It  hung  heavy  on  his  hands,  and 
to  distract  himself  he  took  to  taking  long  walks 
about  Paris.  He  would  stroll  along  the  Seine,  turn- 
ing over  the  leaves  of  the  books  in  the  houquiniste  s 
boxes  on  the  parapets  of  the  quais,  amusing  himself 
with  the  old  engravings  in  the  ten  centimes  boxes, 
breathing  in  the  sharp  scent  of  the  river  and  the 
perfume  of  old,  passed  centuries ;  he  would  wander 
in  the  once  fashionable  quarters  of  the  town,  now 
fallen  from  grace,  and  imagine  the  days  when  they 
were  full  of  sedan  chairs  and  elegant  ladies.  His 
love  for  the  faded,  the  graceful,  vanished  past,  grew 
and  solaced  him.  How  many  of  his  poems  seem  to 
be  merely  efforts  to  reproduce  it,  and  so  dwell  in  it 
for  a  few  minutes  ! 

Side  by  side  with  these  imaginative  pleasures  were 
others.  He  began  to  see  nature,  real  nature,  as  it  is 
even  to-day.     His  walks  in  the  suburbs  gave  him 


Albert  Samain  67 

many  a  picture  which  he  turned  to  account  later  in 
Aux  Flancs  du  Vase.  The  splendid,  differing  sun- 
sets gave  him  infinite  pleasure  ;  sometimes  he  would 
get  into  one  of  the  bateaux  mouches  which  go  up  and 
down  the  river,  and  watch  the  yellows  and  reds  of 
the  sunset  repeat  themselves  in  the  water.  He  had 
none  of  that  modern  spirit  which  enables  one  to  see 
beauties  in  tram-cars  and  smoking  chimneys,  so  he 
eliminated  them  from  his  thought.  In  love  with 
beauty  as  he  conceived  it,  he  took  the  changing 
colours  which  all  sorts  of  weather  threw  over  Paris, 
and,  eternal  as  they  are,  lit  his  pictures  of  other 
centuries  with  them.  He  speaks  of  "la  suavite 
supreme  de  Paris  d'Automne;"  the  frail  gold  of 
Autumn  always  pleased  him.  He  describes  dark 
gardens  where  the  fountains  "font  un  bruit  maigre, 
frileux  et  comme  desole  dans  I'abandon  du  crepus- 
cule."  He  loved  rainy  days,  and  deserted  streets, 
the  "melancolie  vieillotte  des  rues  ou  quelque  chose 
est  en  train  de  mourir."  Once  he  says:  "II  me 
semblalt  voir,  sous  mes  yeux,  1830  —  le  1830  de 
Lamartine  et  de  Hugo  —  toute  mon  adolescence 
ivre  d'enfant  lyrique  s'en  aller  la  dans  cette  solitude 
morne,  silencieuse,  provinciale." 

A  gentle  soul ;  when  he  was  particularly  depressed 
he  used  to  put  a  bunch  of  tuberoses,  or  a  single  pale 
rose,  in  a  glass  on  his  desk.  "Quand  je  me  sens 
devenir  pessimiste,  je  regarde  une  rose,"  he  used  to 
say.     Flowers  were   the  only  luxury   he  permitted 


68  Six  French  Poets 

himself.     Except  (and  this  is  the  great  "except") 
his  imagination. 

His  room  was  as  bare  as  a  cell  in  a  monastery, 
neither  painting  nor  engraving  hung  on  the  walls. 
But  listen  to  the  room  he  would  have  had  if  — 
evoking  it  to  amuse  himself  on  an  Autumn  even- 
ing:  "My  room.  Hung  with  velvet  of  steel- 
coloured  grey,  with  blue  lights  in  it.  The  rose- 
tinted  ceiling  fades  off  into  mauve  and  has  a  large 
decorative  design  —  Renaissance  —  in  old  silver, 
embossed  at  the  corners.  Hangings  hide  the  door. 
No  windows  ;  the  room  only  being  used  by  artificial 
light.  Near  the  floor,  forming  a  base-board,  a 
band  of  old  silver  openwork  appliqued  on  the  same 
velvet  as  the  hangings,  a  flower  design,  with  knots  of 
pink  pearl  tassels  at  intervals.  A  carpet  with  a 
silver  nap ;  against  one  side  of  the  wall,  a  divan  of 
steel-grey  velvet.  No  movable  furniture.  In  one 
corner,  directly  under  the  bosses  of  the  ceiling,  an 
ebony  table  with  silver  lion's  claws  for  feet ;  the 
table  is  covered  with  a  cloth  of  steel-grey  velvet, 
with  a  great  silver  tulip  with  rose-coloured  leaves 
embroidered  in  the  corner.  An  Etruscan  armchair, 
made  entirely  of  ebony,  with  silver  nails.  Negli- 
gently thrown  over  the  armchair  to  soften  the 
sharpness  of  the  angles  and  the  hardness  of  the 
wood,  a  grey  bear  skin.  A  lamp  of  old  silver,  mas- 
sive and  slender,  with  a  long  neck  of  a  clear  shape, 
and  without  ornament.     Shade  of  faded  moss-rose 


Albert  Samain  69 

colour.  Blotting  pad  of  steel-grey  morocco,  with 
a  heraldic  device  ;  a  penholder  of  old  gold.  Books  : 
Corbiere,  Mallarme,  Fleurs  du  Mai,  in  small  folios, 
bound  in  white  pigskin  and  tied  with  cords  of  rose- 
colour  and  silver,  edges  of  old  gold,  titles  printed  in 
Roman  letters,  crude  red  on  the  top  and  on  the  left 
side.  A  fireplace  with  a  historical  plaque  over  it  — 
Renaissance,  and  andirons  of  wrought  steel  termi- 
nating in  couched  chimeras.  Three  sides  of  the 
room  are  empty.  In  the  corner  opposite  the  table, 
on  the  wall,  two  metres  from  the  ground,  a  console 
covered  with  steel-grey  velvet  supported  by  a  Renais- 
sance chimera  in  iron.  .  .  .  Upon  the  console,  a 
great  horn  of  crystal,  very  tapering,  in  which  are 
two  roses,  one  rose  a  sulphur  yellow,  one  wine- 
coloured.  In  an  alcove  hidden  by  a  curtain  is  a 
deep  niche,  bathed  in  the  half-light  of  a  gold  altar 
lamp  hanging  by  a  little  chain.  The  globe  of  the 
lamp  is  made  of  pieces  of  many-coloured  glass  cut 
in  facets  so  that  they  shine  like  great  stones  :  ruby, 
sapphire,  emerald.  In  the  niche,  which  is  hung  with 
crimson  velvet,  on  a  column  with  a  Doric  capital, 
stands  the  Young  Faun  of  Praxiteles.  ..." 

Lacking  this  room,  why  bother  with  engravings ! 
Yet  Samain  never  complained  of  the  ugliness  and 
meagreness  of  actual  life.  He  only  played  his 
games  on  windy  nights  in  his  bare  room. 

It  would  be  unjust  to  Samain  to  represent  him 
as    passing    all    his    evenings    wrapped    in    sugary 


70  Six  French  Poets 

dreams.  He  studied  science,  history,  philosophy. 
It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  he  was  one  of  the 
first  men  in  France  to  recognize  the  genius  of 
Nietzsche. 

In  compensation  for  the  many  bitternesses  of  his 
Hfe,  beginning  in  1884  came  the  happiness  of  two 
friendships.  Samain  made  the  acquaintance,  and 
quickly  became  the  intimate  friend,  of  Paul  Morisse 
and  Raymond  Bonheur.  Paul  Morisse  was  a  con- 
stant traveller,  and  with  him  Samain  made  his  first 
considerable  journey.  The  two  friends  went  to 
Germany.  They  saw  the  Rhine,  Bingen,  Mayence, 
etc.  Samain  was  charmed  with  all  he  saw.  He 
possessed  the  gift  of  wonder ;  an  inestimable  pos- 
session, by  the  way.  Unfortunately  it  was  hard  to 
find  money  for  these  excursions.  Samain  called 
the  lack  of  money  "the  defective  side"  of  his  life. 
When  the  French  Academy  crowned  his  first  book, 
he  gave  himself  the  present  of  a  month  at  Lake 
Annecy. 

So  at  last  we  reach  his  first  book,  privately  printed 
in  1893,  when  the  poet  had  passed  his  thirty-fifth 
birthday. 

At  this  time  the  Mercure  de  France  had  just  come 
into  existence,  and  Samain  was  one  of  its  founders. 
It  was  in  the  pages  of  the  Mercure  that  most  of -^ his 
poems  appeared.  Samain  never  seems  to  have 
seriously  considered  collecting  them  into  a  book. 
Over-diffident  and  self-critical,  he  worked  at  them, 


Albert  Samain  71 

changed  them,  polished  them.  At  rare  intervals  one 
was  printed.  Samain  was  in  love  with  perfection, 
and  very  little  that  he  did  ever  seemed  to  him  worthy 
to  leave  his  hands.  This  excessi\^e  scrupulousness 
works  both  ways.  A  poem  so  treated  gains  in 
beauty,  but  frequently  loses  in  vitality.  There  is 
great  danger  of  its  becoming  a  thing  of  mummied 
splendour.  That  Samain's  poems  absolutely  lost 
vigour  by  this  polishing,  I  cannot  fairly  say.  The 
poems  I  have  seen  in  several  states  do  seem  to  have 
gained  technically  in  their  final  one,  and  to  have 
parted  with  practically  none  of  their  original  elan. 
Elan  is  too  strong  a  word.  Samain's  poems  are 
never  dashing  with  life.  Let  us  say  rather,  not  that 
his  poems  lost  by  his  treatment  of  them,  but  that 
the  kind  of  man  who  could  so  treat  them  was  of  a 
slightly  depressed,  unvital  temper.  How  consider- 
able a  course  of  discipline  he  put  them  through  can 
be  imagined  when  I  mention  that,  in  the  four  ver- 
sions extant  of  a  poem  of  twenty-eight  lines,  only 
four  which  were  in  the  first  version  appear  in  the 
last. 

But  to  return  to  that  first  volume.  At  the  in- 
stance of  M.  Bonheur,  Samain  consented  to  print  it. 
Not  publish  it,  observe.  It  was  issued  in  a  charm- 
ing, privately  printed  edition.     This  was  in  October, 

1893.  And  in  the  Journal  for  the  15th  of  March, 

1894,  appeared  a  review  of  it  by  no  less  a  person 
than  Frangois  Coppee.     How  the  volume  came  into 


72  Six  French  Poets 

Coppee's  hands  I  do  not  know,  but  he  instantly 
recognized  its  value  and  said  so  frankly.  Five 
months  of  reviewing  and  praise  in  the  young  reviews 
had  not  been  able  to  do  for  Samain  what  the  hun- 
dred lines  from  Francois  Coppee  did  at  once.  It 
was  celebrity,  almost  fame.  The  little,  privately 
printed  edition  was  quickly  exhausted.  Another 
was  called  for,  and  at  last  the  book,  Au  Jardin  de 
r Infante,  was  published.  Still  Samain  was  diffident, 
and  when  a  third  edition  was  needed,  he  hesitated 
again ;  but  the  third  edition  came  out  three  years 
after  the  first.  The  edition  I  have  is  marked 
"twenty- fifth,"  so  it  appears  that  Samain  was  un- 
necessarily timid.  The  book  was  given  a  prize  by 
the  French  Academy,  and  Samain  was  one  of  the 
poets  of  the  hour. 

There  was  nothing  very  new  in  Au  Jardin  de 
rinfante,  it  is  true.  The  metre  was  the  classic 
alexandrine,  for  the  most  part,  varied  by  lighter, 
gayer  rhythms  equally  well  sanctioned.  But  the 
book  was  full  of  the  shy,  delicate  personality  of  the 
poet.  Here  were  his  sumptuous  imaginings,  and 
the  haunting  sadness  which  never  quite  left  him. 
Here  was  his  tenderness  for  lovely,  fragile  things  ; 
his  preoccupation  with  the  past.  Finally  here  was 
his  love  for  English  —  the  volume  bore  this  motto 
from  Edgar  Allan  Poe  : 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that,  on  this  July  midnight  — 
Was  it  not  Fate  (whose  name  is  also  Sorrow) 


Albert  S amain  73 

That  bade  me  pause  before  that  garden-gate 

To  breathe  the  incense  of  those  slumbering  roses  ? 
****** 

(Ah  !  bear  in  mind  this  garden  was  enchanted  !) 

The  following  poem  is  printed  in  italics  as  a  sort 
of  dedication  to  the  book  : 

Mon  ame  est  une  infante  en  robe  de  parade, 
Dont  I'exil  se  reflete,  etemel  et  royal, 
Aux  grands  miroirs  deserts  d'un  vieil  Escurial, 
Ainsi  qu'une  galere  oubliee  en  la  rade. 

Aux  pieds  de  son  fauteuil,  allonges  noblement, 
Dexix  levriers  d'Ecosse  aux  yeux  melancoliques 
Chassent,  quand  il  lui  plait,  les  betes  symboliques 
Dans  la  foret  du  Reve  et  de  I'Enchantement. 

Son  page  favori,  qui  s'appelle  Naguere, 
Lui  lit  d'ensorcelants  poemes  a  nii-voix, 
Cependant  qu 'immobile,  une  tulipe  aux  doigts, 
EUe  ecoute  mourir  en  elle  leur  mystere  .  .  . 

Le  pare  alentour  d'elle  etend  ses  frondaisons, 
Ses  marbres,  ses  bassins,  ses  rampes  a  balustres ; 
Et,  grave,  elle  s'enivre  a  ces  songes  illustres 
Que  recelent  pour  nous  les  nobles  horizons. 

Elle  est  la  resignee,  et  douce,  et  sans  surprise, 
Sachant  trop  pour  lutter  comme  tout  est  fatal, 
Et  se  sentant,  malgre  quelque  dedain  natal, 
Sensible  a  la  pitie  comme  I'onde  a  la  brise. 


74  Six  French  Poets 

EUe  est  la  resignee,  et  douce  en  ses  sanglots, 
Plus  sombre  seulement  quand  elle  evoque  en  songe 
Quelque  Armada  sombree  a  I'etemel  mensonge, 
Et  tant  de  beaux  espoirs  endormis  sous  les  flots. 

Des  soirs  trop  lourds  de  pourpre  ou  sa  fiertc  soupire, 

Les  portraits  de  Van  Dyck  aux  beaux  doigts  longs  et  purs, 

Pales  en  velours  noir  sur  I'or  vieilli  des  murs, 

En  leurs  grands  airs  defunts  la  font  rever  d'empire. 

Les  vieux  mirages  d'or  ont  dissipe  son  deuil, 
Et  dans  les  visions  ou  son  ennui  s'echappe, 
Soudain  —  gloire  ou  soleil  —  un  rayon  qui  la  frappe 
AUume  en  elle  tous  les  rubis  de  I'orgueil. 

Mais  d'un  sourire  triste  elle  apaise  ces  fievres ; 
Et,  redoutant  la  foule  aux  tumultes  de  fer, 
Elle  ecoute  la  vie  —  au  loin  —  comme  la  mer  .  .  . 
Et  le  secret  se  fait  plus  profond  sur  ses  levres. 

Rien  n'emeut  d'un  frisson  I'eau  pale  de  ses  yeux, 
Ou  s'est  assis  I'Esprit  voile  des  Villes  mortes ; 
Et  par  les  salles,  oii  sans  bruit  toument  les  portes, 
Elle  va,  s'enchantant  de  mots  mysterieux. 

L'eau  vaine  des  jets  d'eau  la-bas  tombe  en  cascade, 
Et,  pale  k  la  crois^e,  une  tulipe  aux  doigts, 
Elle  est  1^,  refietee  aux  miroirs  d'autrefois, 
Ainsi  qu'une  galore  oubliee  en  la  rade. 

Mon  Ame  est  une  infante  en  robe  de  parade. 


Albert  Samain  75 

Who,  after  reading  that  poem,  could  approach  the 
book  in  other  than  a  sympathetic  mood  ? 

Is  it  by  chance  that  he  figures  his  soul  under  the 
guise  of  a  Spanish  Infanta ;  or  does  he  feel  in  him- 
self something  exotic,  un-French,  something  which 
is  descended  to  him  from  those  possible  Spanish 
ancestors  ? 

This  poem  seems  almost  a  complete  epitome  of 
Samain's  soul.  An  old,  magnificent  splendour  is 
here,  all  about  his  seated,  quiescent  Infanta,  "im- 
mobile, une  tulipe  aux  doigts."     And  again, 

EUe  est  la,  refletee  aux  miroirs  d'autrefois, 
Ainsi  qu'une  galere  oubliee  en  la  rade. 

Yes,  Samain  has  paraphrased  himself  in  this  poem 
—  the  haughty,  noble,  anachronistic  self,  hidden 
under  the  appearance  of  an  insignificant  government 
employee. 

This  introduction  is  followed  by  a  second  motto 
from  Mallarme  :  "  D'une  essence  ravie  aux  vieillesses 
des  roses,"  and  then  we  come  to  the  book  itself. 
This  is  the  first  poem  : 

HEURES   D'ETE 

I 

Apporte  les  cristaux  dor^>s, 
Et  les  verres  couleur  de  songe ; 
Et  que  notre  amour  se  prolonge 
Dans  les  parfums  exasperes. 


76  Six  French  Poets 

Des  roses  !     Des  roses  encor  ! 
Je  les  adore  a  la  souffrance. 
EUes  ont  la  sombre  attirance 
Des  choses  qui  donnent  la  mort. 

L'ete  d'or  croule  dans  les  coupes ; 
Le  jus  des  peches  que  tu  coupes 
Eclabousse  ton  sein  neigeux. 

Le  pare  est  sombre  comme  un  gouffre  .  .  . 
Et  c'est  dans  mon  coeur  orageux 
Comme  un  mal  de  douceur  qui  souffre. 

These  poems  are  as  fragile  as  the  golden  crystals 
he  speaks  of.  What  do  they  give  us?  It  is  impos- 
sible to  sa}^  A  nuance,  a  colour,  a  vague  magnifi- 
cence. Here  is  an  evocation  of  that  eighteenth 
century,  by  which  he  was  haunted : 


MUSIQUE  SUR  L'EAU 

Oh  !     Ecoute  la  symphonic ; 
Rien  n'est  doux  comme  une  agonie 
Dans  la  musique  indefinie 
Qu 'exhale  un  lointain  vaporeux ; 

D'une  langueur  la  nuit  s'enivre, 
Et  notre  coeur  qu'elle  d^livre 
Du  monotone  effort  de  vivre 
Se  meurt  d'un  trdpas  langoureux. 


Albert  Samain  77 

Glissons  entre  le  del  et  I'onde, 
Glissons  sous  la  lune  profonde  ; 
Toute  mon  ame,  loin  du  monde, 
S'est  refugi^e  en  tes  yeux, 

Et  je  regarde  tes  prunelles 
Se  pamer  sous  les  chanterelles, 
Comme  deux  fleurs  surnaturelles 
Sous  un  rayon  melodieux. 

Oh !  ecoute  la  symphonie  ; 
Rien  n'est  doux  comme  I'agonie 
De  la  levre  a  la  levre  unie 
Dans  la  musique  indefinie  .  .  . 

The   insistence   of    Autumn   evenings   with   their 
suggestion  of  melancholy  is  in  Octobre: 

OCTOBRE 

Octobre  est  doux.  —  L'hiver  pelerin  s'achemine 
Au  ciel  ou  la  derniere  hirondelle  s'etonne. 
Revons  .  .  .  le  feu  s'allume  et  la  bise  chantonne. 
R^vons  .  .  .  le  feu  s'endort  sous  sa  cendre  d'hermine. 

L'abat-jour  transparent  de  rose  s'illumine. 

La  vitre  est  noire  sous  I'averse  monotone. 

Oh !  le  doux  "remember"  en  la  chambre  d'automne, 

Ou  des  trumeaux  d^funts  I'ame  se  dissemine. 

La  ville  est  loin.     Plus  rien  qu'un  bruit  sourd  de  voitures 
Qui  meurt,  melancolique,  aux  plis  lourds  des  tentures  .  .  . 
Formons  des  reves  fins  sur  des  miniatures. 


78  Six  French  Poets 

Vers  de  mauves  lointains  d'une  douceur  fanee 
Mon  ame  s'est  perdue  ;  et  I'Heure  enrubannee 
Sonne  cent  ans  a  la  pendule  surannee  .  .  . 

And  here  is  a  splendid  one  of  a  fete  —  eighteenth 
century,  of  course  —  in  the  Palazzo  Lanzoli  at  Ber- 
gamo, and  all  done  with  a  touch  : 

NOCTURNE 

Nuit  d'ete.  —  Sous  le  ciel  de  lapis-lazuli, 
Le  pare  enchante  baigne  en  des  tenebres  molles. 
Les  fleurs  revent,  Tamour  se  parfume  aux  coroUes. 
Tiede,  la  lune  monte  au  firmament  pali. 

Ce  soir,  fete  a  Bergame  au  palais  Lanzoli ! 
Les  couples  enlaces  descendent  des  gondoles. 
Le  bal  s'ouvre,  etoile  de  roses  girandoles. 
Flutes  et  cordes,  I'orchestre  est  conduit  par  LuUi. 

Les  madrigaux  parmi  les  robes  essaimees 
Offrent,  la  levre  en  coeur,  leurs  fadeurs  sublimees ; 
Et,  sur  le  glacis  d'or  des  parquets  transparents, 

Les  caillettes  Regence,  exquisement  vieillotes, 
Detaillent  la  langueur  savante  des  gavottes 
Au  rhythme  parfume  des  eventails  mourants. 

Notice  how  deftly  the  poet  places  his  picture  by 
speaking  of  Bergamo  and  the  Lanzoli  Palace.  And 
bringing  in  Lulli  as  a  rhyme,  is  a  delightful  thing. 


Albert  Samain  79 

But  perhaps  the  prettiest  one  of  that  kind  is 
Vile  Fortunee,  undoubtedly  suggested  by  Watteau's 
picture,  Le  Depart  pour  Cythere.  Not  Verlaine  him- 
self has  done  a  more  beautiful  eighteenth  century 
picture,  nor  one  which  sings  more  gracefully. 


L'lLE  FORTUNEE 

Dites,  la  Bande  Jolie, 
J'ai  I'ame  en  m^lancolie, 
Dites-moi,  je  vous  supplie, 

Ou  c'est. 
Est-ce  a  Venise,  a  Florence  ? 
Est-ce  au  pays  d'Esperance  ? 
Est-ce  dans  I'lle-de-France  ? 

Qui  sait  ? 

Viens,  tu  verras  des  bergeres, 

Des  marquises  bocageres, 

Des  moutons  blancs  d'etageres, 

Et  puis 
Des  oiseaux  et  des  oiselles, 
Des  Lindors  et  des  Angeles, 
Et  des  roses  aux  margelles 

Des  puits. 

Viens,  tu  verras  des  Lucindes, 
Des  Agnes,  des  Rosalindes, 
Avec  des  perles  des  Indes, 
Gardant 


8o  Six  French  Poets 

Sur  I'index  une  perruche, 
Le  col  serre  dans  la  ruche, 
Le  grand  eventail  d'autruche 
Pendant. 

Les  Iris,  et  les  Estelles 
En  chaperons  de  dentelLj 
R§vent  pres  des  cascatelks 

En  pleurs, 
Et  fermant  leurs  grandes  ailes 
Les  papillons  epris  d'elles 
En  deviennent  infideles 

Aux  fleurs. 

Unis  d'une  double  etreinte 

Les  Amants  rodent,  sans  crainte, 

Aux  detours  du  labyrinthe 

Secret. 
Sur  le  jardin  diaphane 
Un  demi-silence  plane, 
Oti  toute  rumeur  profane 

Mourrait. 

C'est  la  Divine  Joum6e, 
Par  le  songe  promen6e 
Sur  I'herbe  comme  fanee 

Un  peu. 
Avec  des  amours  sans  fraude, 
Des  yeux  d'ambre  et  d'emeraude 
Et  de  lents  propos  que  brode 

L'aveu. 


Albert  Samain  8i 

Le  soir  tombe  .  .  .  L'heure  douce 
Qui  s' eloigns  sans  secousse 
Pose  a  peine  sur  la  mousse 

Ses  pieds ; 
Un  jour  indecis  persiste, 
Et  le  Crepuscule  triste 
Ouvre  ses  yeux  d'am^thyste 

Mouilles. 

Des  cygnes  voguent  par  troupes  .  .  . 
On  goute  sur  I'herbe  en  groupes  ; 
Le  dessert  choque  les  coupes 

D'or  fin. 
Les  assiettes  sont  de  Sdvres ; 
Et  les  madrigaux,  si  midvres, 
Caramelisent  les  levres 

Sans  fin. 

L'apres-midi  qui  renie 
L'ivresse  du  jour  bannie 
Expire  en  une  infinie 

Langueur  .  .  . 
Le  toit  des  chaumieres  fume, 
Et  dans  le  ciel  qui  s'embrume 
L'argent  des  astres  s'allume, 

Songeur. 

Les  amants  disent  leurs  flammes, 
Les  yeux  fiddles  des  femmes 
Sont  si  purs  qu'on  voit  leurs  §,mes 
Au  fond ; 


82  Six  French  Poets 

Et,  deux  a  deux,  angeliques, 
Les  Baisers  melancoliques 
Au  bleu  pays  des  reliques 
S'en  vont. 

Au  son  des  musiques  lentes, 
Les  Amoureuses  dolentes 
Ralentissent,  nonchalantes, 

Le  pas  .  .  . 
Du  ciel  flotte  sur  la  terre ; 
Et,  dans  le  soir  solitaire, 
L'angelus  tinte  a  Cythere, 

L^-bas  ... 

The  whole  volume  is  full  of  delicate,  almost  arti- 
ficial, light  and  shade;  bells  ring  over  still  lakes, 
roses  in  cut  glass  vases  mirror  themselves  in  the 
marble  tops  of  tables,  silken  skirts  brush  over 
polished  floors,  but  —  in  the  distance,  everything  is 
in  the  distance.  The  poet  himself,  kind,  patient, 
sad,  is  always  by  our  side  assuring  us  that  it  is  only 
his  soul,  "en  robe  de  parade."  Still,  there  are 
sterner  poems  in  this  collection,  such  as  Silence  and 
Douleur.  No  one  understands  better  than  Samain 
how  to  give  the  emotion,  the  grandeur,  or  the  tragedy, 
of  an  epoch,  in  the  confines  of  a  sonnet. 

VILLE   MORTE 

Vague,  perdue  au  fond  des  sables  monotones, 
La  ville  d'autrefois,  sans  tours  et  sans  ramparts, 


Albert  Samain  83 

Dort  le  sommeil  dernier  des  vieilles  Babylones, 
Sous  le  suaire  blanc  de  ses  marbres  epars. 

Jadis  elle  regnait ;  sur  ses  murailles  fortes 

La  Victoire  etendait  ses  deiix  ailes  de  fer. 

Tous  les  peuples  d'Asie  assiegeaient  ses  cent  portes ; 

Et  ses  grands  escaliers  descendaient  vers  la  mer  .  .  . 

Vide  a  present,  et  pour  jamais  silencieuse, 
Pierre  a  pierre,  elle  meurt,  sous  la  lune  pieuse, 
Aupres  de  son  vieux  fleuve  ainsi  qu'elle  eptuse 

Et,  seul,  un  elephant  de  bronze,  en  ces  desastres, 
Droit  encore  au  sommet  d'un  portique  brise, 
Leve  tragiquement  sa  trompe  vers  les  astres. 

Or  this,  which  seems,  in  its  fourteen  lines,  to  give 
both  sides  of  Napoleon's  character  so  that  no  more 
need  be  said.  Napoleon,  sending  to  Corsica  for  his 
old  nurse,  so  that  she  might  be  present  at  his  Coro- 
nation, is  one  of  those  strange  beauties  which  start 
up  along  his  career. 


LE  SACRE 

Notre-Dame  annongait  I'apotheose  pr^te 

Avec  la  voix  d'airain  de  ses  beffrois  jumeaux ; 

Au  loin  les  grands  canons  grondaient,  et  les  drapeaux 

Se  gonflaient,  frissonnants,  sous  I'orgueil  de  la  fete. 


84  Six  French  Poets 

L'Empereur  s'inclina,  les  mains  jointes,  nu-tete, 
Et  le  Pape  apparut,  dans  1' eclat  des  flambeaux, 
Tenant  entre  ses  doigts  etincelants  d'anneaux 
La  couronne  portant  la  croix  latine  au  faite. 

Mon  fils  !  dit  le  pontife  .  .  .  alors  I'orgue  se  tut. 
Sur  tous  les  fronts  baisses  un  seul  frisson  courut, 
Comme  le  battement  soudain  d'une  aile  immense ; 

Et  Ton  n'entendit  plus,  6  Cesar  triomphant, 
Dans  la  nef  ou  planait  un  auguste  silence, 
Qu'une  vieille  a  genoux  qui  pleurait  son  enfant. 

There  are  still  two  more  poems  which  I  must 
quote.  They  tell  more  about  his  poetry  than  any 
words  of  mine  can  do.  The  first  is  Dilection,  and 
enumerates  the  subjects  he  prefers : 

DILECTION 

J'adore  I'indecis,  les  sons,  les  couleurs  freles. 
Tout  ce  qui  tremble,  ondule,  et  frissonne,  et  chatoie, 
Les  cheveux  et  les  yeux,  I'eau,  les  feuilles,  la  soie, 
Et  la  spiritualite  des  formes  greles ; 

Les  rimes  se  frolant  comme  des  tourterelles, 
La  fum6e  oil  le  songe  en  spirales  tournoie, 
La  chambre  au  crepuscule,  oii  Son  profil  se  noie, 
Et  la  caresse  de  Ses  mains  surnaturelles ; 


Albert  Samain  85 

L'heure  de  ciel  au  long  des  levres  calinee, 
L'ame  comme  d'un  poids  de  delice  inclinee, 
L'ame  qui  meurt  ainsi  qu'une  rose  fanee, 

Et  tel  coeur  d'ombre  chaste,  embaume  de  mj'-stere, 
Ou  veille,  comme  le  rubis  d'lm  lampadaire, 
Nuit  et  jour,  un  amour  mystique  et  solitaire. 

The  second  poem  starts  off  without  any  title  and 
speaks  of  the  technique  he  strives  to  attain : 

Je  r6ve  de  vers  doux  et  d'intimes  ramages, 
De  vers  a  froler  l'ame  ainsi  que  des  plumages, 

De  vers  blonds  ou  le  sens  fluide  se  delie, 
Comme  sous  I'eau  la  chevelure  d'Oph^lie, 

De  vers  silencieux,  et  sans  rythme  et  sans  trame, 
Ou  la  rime  sans  bruit  glisse  comme  une  rame, 

De  vers  d'une  ancienne  etoffe,  extenu^e, 
Impalpable  comme  le  son  et  la  nuee, 

De  vers  de  soirs  d'automne  ensorcelant  les  heures 
Au  rite  feminin  des  syllabes  mineures, 

De  vers  de  soirs  d'amour  enerves  de  verveine, 
Ou  Time  sente,  exquise,  une  caresse  a  peine, 


86  Six  French  Poets 

Et  qui  au  long  des  nerfs  baign^s  d'ondes  cilines 

Meurent  a  I'infini  en  pamoisons  felines, 

Comme  un  parfum  dissous  parmi  des  ti^deurs  closes, 

Violes  d'or,  et  pianissim'amorose  .  .  . 

Je  r^ve  de  vers  doux  mourant  comme  des  roses. 

These  two  poems  together  are  an  excellent  analysis 
of  his  work. 

Good  fortune  did  not  change  Samain.  He  was 
gentle,  unaffected,  painstaking,  as  before.  He  did 
not  rush  into  print  as  the  result  of  his  success ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  was  not  until  1898  that  his  next 
book,  Aux  Flancs  du  Vase,  was  published. 

In  the  meantime,  Samain  and  Raymond  Bonheur 
had  been  to  Provenge  in  September,  1897,  and 
stopped  at  Orthez  to  see  Francis  Jammes.  Between 
this  simple  and  great  poet  and  Samain,  two  days 
were  enough  to  cement  a  friendship  which  lasted 
for  the  rest  of  Samain's  life.  They  only  saw  each 
other  for  these  few  days,  and  once,  later,  when 
Jammes  came  to  Paris  for  a  short  stay,  and  wandered 
about  the  park  of  Versailles  with  Samain,  but  the 
memory  of  his  friend  has  never  left  Jammes.  One 
of  his  most  beautiful  Elegies  is  to  Samain. 

These  little  journeys,  including  one  to  Italy,  gave 
Samain  great  pleasure,  and  showed  him  more  kinds 
of  natural  scenery  than  he  had  ever  seen  before. 


Albert  Samain  87 

The  poems  in  his  posthumous  volume,  Le  Chariot 
d'Or:  Forets,  Les  Monts,  Le  Fleuve,  are  probably 
the  result  of  those  journeys. 

About  this  time,  Samain's  health  began  to  give 
way.  He  complains  of  discomfort.  This  is  the 
moment  to  follow  up  his  success.  M.  Brunetiere 
makes  advances  to  him  for  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes,  and  twice  his  poems  are  printed  in  it.  But 
he  is  indifferent.  His  health  is  failing.  He  is  writing 
Aux  Flancs  du  Vase,  and  says  that  the  idea  of  it 
"me  hante  comme  un  cauchemar,"  and  that  he  can- 
not sleep  for  thinking  of  it. 

Unhappily,  the  moment  passes,  and  when  the  book 
comes  out  in  1898,  it  goes  almost  unnoticed.  Too 
long  a  time  had  elapsed,  Coppee  was  ill,  and  there 
was  no  fashionable  critic  to  do  for  this  volume  what 
he  had  done  for  the  other. 

Yet  Aux  Flancs  du  Vase  is  not  a  whit  behind 
Au  Jardin  de  V Infante  in  beauty  of  purpose  or 
technique.  Twenty-five  little  poems,  of  a  singu- 
larly advised  simplicity  and  charm.  The  scenes 
are  set  in  a  conventional  antiquity  by  means  of 
Greek  names  being  given  to  the  characters,  and 
the  whole  reminds  one  of  a  set  of  engravings  by 
Boucher,  or  Fragonard,  or  Watteau.  Not  paintings, 
but  engravings,  each  set  in  an  oval,  and  faintly 
coloured. 

It  is  a  little  boy  struggling  with  a  goat ;  or  a  mother 
and  child  threading  and  bargaining  their  way  through 


88  Six  French  Poets 

a  market;    or  a  girl  chasing  and  catching  a  frog. 
But  here  are  three  of  these  Httle  pieces : 

LE  REPAS  prepare' 

Ma  fiUe,  laisse  1^  ton  aiguille  et  ta  laine ; 
Le  maitre  va  rentrer ;  sur  la  table  de  chene 
Avec  la  nappe  neuve  aux  plis  etincelants 
Mats  la  faience  claire  et  les  verres  brillants. 
Dans  la  coupe  arrondie  a  I'anse  en  col  de  cygne 
Pose  les  fruits  choisis  sur  des  feuilles  de  vigne  : 
Les  p^ches  que  recouvre  un  velours  vierge  encor, 
Et  les  lourds  raisins  bleus  mgles  aux  raisins  d'or. 
Que  le  pain  bien  coupe  remplisse  les  corbeilles, 
Et  puis  ferme  la  porte  et  chasse  les  abeilles  .  .  . 
Dehors  le  soleil  briile,  et  la  muraille  cuit. 
Rapprochons  les  volets,  faisons  presque  la  nuit. 
Afin  qu'ainsi  la  salle,  aux  tenebres  plongee, 
S'embaume  toute  aux  fruits  dont  la  table  est  chargee. 
Maintenant,  va  puiser  I'eau  fraiche  dans  la  cour ; 
Et  veille  que  surtout  la  cruche,  a  ton  retour, 
Garde  longtemps,  glacee  et  lentement  fondue, 
Une  vapeur  legere  a  ses  flancs  suspendue. 

LA  BULLE 

Bathylle,  dans  la  cour  ou  glousse  la  volaille, 

Sur  I'ecuelle  penche,  souffle  dans  une  paille ; 

L'eau  savonneuse  mousse  et  bouillonne  k  grand  bruit, 

Et  deborde.     L'enfant  qui  s'^puise  sans  fruit 

Sent  venir  k  sa  bouche  une  acrete  saline. 

Plus  heureuse,  une  bulle  a  la  fin  se  dessine. 


Albert  Samain  89 

Et,  conduite  avec  art,  s'allonge,  se  distend 
Et  s'arrondit  enfin  en  un  globe  eclatant. 
L'enf ant  souffle  toujours ;  elle  s'accroit  encore : 
Elle  a  les  cent  couleurs  du  prisme  et  de  I'aurore, 
Et  reflate  aux  parois  de  son  mince  cristal 
Les  arbres,  la  maison,  la  route  et  le  cheval. 
Prete  a  se  detacher,  merveilleuse,  elle  brille  ! 
L'enfant  retient  son  souffle,  et  voici  qu'elle  oscille, 
Et  monte  doucement,  vert  pale  et  rose  clair, 
Comme  un  frele  prodige  etincelant  dans  I'air ! 
Elle  monte  .  .  .  Et  soudain,  I'ame  encore  eblouie, 
Bathylle  cherche  en  vain  sa  gloire  evanouie  .  .  . 

PANNYRE  AUX  TALONS  D'OR 

Dans  la  salle  en  rumeur  un  silence  a  passe  .  .  , 

Pannyre  aux  talons  d'or  s'avance  pour  danser. 

Un  voile  atix  mille  plis  la  cache  tout  entiere. 

D'un  long  trille  d'argent  la  flute  la  premiere 

L'invite ;  elle  s'elance,  entre-croise  ses  pas, 

Et,  du  lent  mouvement  imprime  par  ses  bras, 

Donne  un  rythme  bizarre  a  I'etoffe  nombreuse, 

Qui  s'elargit,  ondule,  et  se  gonfle  et  se  creuse, 

Et  se  deploie  enfin  en  large  tourbillon  .  .  . 

Et  Pannyre  devient  fleur,  flamme,  papillon ! 

Tous  se  taisent ;  les  yeux  la  suivent  en  extase. 

Peu  k  peu  la  fureur  de  la  danse  I'embrase. 

Elle  toume  toujours ;  vite  !  plus  vite  encore  ! 

La  flamme  eperdument  vacille  aux  flambeaux  d'or !  .  .  . 

Puis,  brusque,  elle  s'arrete  au  milieu  de  la  salle ; 

Et  le  voile  qui  toume  autour  d'elle  en  spirale, 


90  Six  French  Poets 

Suspendu  dans  sa  course,  apaise  ses  longs  plis, 
Et,  se  coUant  aux  seins  aigus,  aux  flancs  polls, 
Comme  au  travers  d'une  eau  soyeuse  et  continue, 
Dans  un  divin  eclair,  montre  Pannyre  nue. 

Little  dramas,  they  are,  sufficient  each  one  to 
itself  with  a  perfect  finality.  And  the  delicacy  with 
which  they  are  done  defies  analysis.  They  are  trans- 
parent, hardly  printing  themselves  upon  the  atmos- 
phere, like  egg-shell  china  held  to  the  light.  And 
yet  what  movement  they  have  !  One  can  almost 
hear  the  soft  snap  with  which  the  soap-bubble 
bursts,  and  Pannyre's  dance  makes  one  giddy  with 
its  whirl ;  and  by  what  means  he  has  given  the 
folding  of  the  draperies  to  stillness  —  to  such  utter, 
drooping  heaviness —  I  do  not  know.    But  there  it  is. 

While  Samain  was  preparing  this  book  for  the 
press,  his  mother  was  taken  ill.  Sick  himself, 
Samain  nursed  his  mother  and  hung  over  her, 
fearing  the  event  he  dared  not  realize.  It  came  in 
December,  1898,  and  Samain  was  alone. 

His  grief  was  desolating.  His  health,  already 
extremely  feeble,  became  worse.  Consumption  de- 
clared itself.  He  must  be  got  away  from  Paris  and 
the  five  flights  of  stairs  to  his  apartment.  M.  Ray- 
mond Bonheur  took  him  to  Villefranche,  but  the 
winds  were  too  strong  and  he  moved  to  Vence. 

In  the  Spring  he  is  back  in  Paris,  but  no  better. 
Still  he  starts  to  work  again,  and  writes  the  little 
play  in  verse,  Polyplieme —  attractive,  insignificant — 


Albert  Samain  91 

which  was  published  in  the  second  edition  of  Aux 
Flancs  du  Vase,  in  1901. 

The  Winter  was  disastrous,  his  letters  are  full  of 
his  suffering.  In  the  Spring,  he  paid  a  visit  to  his 
sister  in  Lille,  but  it  rained  all  the  time  and  he  could 
not  leave  the  house.  Paris  again,  and  the  five  flights 
almost  impossible  to  negotiate.  Then  M.  Bonheur, 
generous  and  devoted  as  always,  took  him  to  his 
own  house  at  Magny-les-Hammeaux  in  the  depart- 
ment of  Seine-et-Oise.  But  Samain  feared  to  be  a 
burden  on  his  friend,  and  after  a  few  weeks  as  his 
guest  insisted  upon  hiring  a  house  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road  and  moving  into  it,  believing,  with  the 
invincible  optimism  of  the  consumptive,  that  he 
should  get  well,  and  that  they  would  go  to  Italy 
together  in  the  Autumn.  Albert  Samain  died  on 
the  1 8th  of  August,  1900,  and  was  buried  in  his 
native  town  of  Lille. 

In  1901,  appeared  his  last  volume  of  poems,  Le 
Chariot  d'Or,  and  in  1903,  a  volume  of  prose  stories, 
entitled  Contes,  both  collections  due  to  the  care  and 
affection  of  his  friends. 

Le  Chariot  d'Or  is,  if  anything,  superior  to  both 
Au  Jardin  de  V Infante  and  Aux  Flancs  du  Vase. 
Not  so  polished  as  the  latter  probably,  nor  so  arti- 
ficially captivating  as  the  former.  But  many  of 
the  poems  seem  to  have  a  larger  humanity.  The 
eighteenth  century  pieces  are  here,  but  more  tenderly, 
more  regretfully  done.     This  one,  called   Watteau, 


92  Six  French  Poets 

might  serve  as  a  companion  piece  to  Vile  Fortunee, 
but  how  differently  executed  : 


WATTEAU 

Au-dessus  des  grands  bois  profonds 

L'etoile  du  berger  s'allume  .  .  . 

Groupes  sur  I'herbe  dans  la  brume  .  .  . 

Pizzicati  des  violons  .  .  . 

Entre  les  mains,  les  mains  s'attardent, 

Le  ciel  oil  les  amants  regardent 

Laisse  un  reflet  rose  dans  I'eau ; 

Et  dans  la  clairiere  indecise, 

Que  la  nuit  proche  idealise, 

Passe  entre  Estelle  et  Cydalise 

L'ombre  amoureuse  de  Watteau. 

Watteau,  peintre  ideal  de  la  Fete  jolie, 

Ton  art  leger  fut  tendre  et  doux  comme  un  soupir, 

Et  tu  donnas  une  ame  inconnue  au  Desir 

En  I'asseyant  aux  pieds  de  la  Melancolie. 

Tes  bergers  fins  avaient  la  canne  d'or  au  doigt ; 
Tes  berg^res,  non  sans  quelques  fagons  hautaines, 
Promenaient,  sous  I'ombrage  ovi  chantaient  les  fontaines, 
Leurs  robes  qu'efifilait  derriere  un  grand  pli  droit  .  .  . 

Dans  I'air  bleuatre  et  tiede  agonisaient  les  roses ; 
Les  coeurs  s'ouvraient  dans  l'ombre  au  jardin  apais6, 
Et  les  levres,  prenant  aux  levres  le  baiser, 
Fiangaient  I'amour  triste  k  la  douceur  des  choses. 


Albert  Samain  93 


Les  Pterins  s'en  vont  au  Pays  ideal  .  .  . 
La  galore  doree  abandonne  la  rive ; 
Et  ramante  a  la  proue  ecoute  au  loin,  pensive, 
Une  flute  mourir,  dans  le  soir  de  cristal  .  .  . 

Oh  !  partir  avec  eux  par  un  soir  de  mystere, 
O  maitre,  vivre  un  soir  dans  ton  r^ve  enchante ! 
La  mer  est  rose.  ...     II  souffle  une  brise  d'ete, 
Et  quand  la  nef  aborde  au  rivage  argent  e 

La  lune  doucement  se  leve  sur  Cythere. 

L'eventail  balance  sans  treve 

Au  rythme  intime  des  aveux 

Fait,  chaque  fois  qu'il  se  souleve, 

S'envoler  au  front  des  cheveux, 

L 'ombre  est  suave  .  .  .  Tout  repose. 

Agnes  sourit ;  Leandre  pose 

Sa  viole  sur  son  manteau  ; 

Et  sur  les  robes  parfumees, 

Et  sur  les  mains  des  Bien-Aimees, 

Flotte,  au  long  des  moUes  ramees, 

L'^me  divine  de  Watteau. 

Take  these  four  sonnets  on  Versailles.  Again, 
the  artificiality  has  gone.  The  melancholy  wears 
its  natural  complexion  as  it  were,  unpalnted,  and 
in  No.  II  is  a  fine  irony,  gentle,  —  the  author  is 
Samain  —  but  healthy  and  keen. 


94  Six  French  Poets 

VERSAILLES 

I 

O  Versailles,  par  cette  apres-midi  fanee, 
Pourquoi  ton  souvenir  m'obsede-t-il  ainsi  ? 
Les  ardeurs  de  I'et^  s'eloignent,  et  void 
Que  s'incline  vers  nous  la  saison  surannee. 

Je  veux  revoir  au  long  d'une  calme  joumee 

Tes  eaux  glauques  que  jonche  un  feuillage  roussi, 

Et  respirer  encore,  un  soir  d'or  adouci, 

Ta  beaute  plus  touchante  au  declin  de  I'annee. 

Voici  tes  ifs  en  cone  et  tes  tritons  joufflus, 
Tes  jardins  composes  ou  Louis  ne  vient  plus, 
Et  ta  pompe  arborant  les  plumes  et  les  casques. 

Comme  un  grand  lys  tu  meurs,  noble  et  triste,  sans  bruit ; 
Et  ton  onde  epuisee  au  bord  moisi  des  vasques 
S'ecoule,  douce  ainsi  qu'un  sanglot  dans  la  nuit. 

11 

Grand  air.     Urbanite  des  fagons  anciennes. 
Haut  ceremonial.     Reverences  sans  fin. 
Crequi,  Fronsac,  beaux  noms  chatoyants  de  satin. 
Mains  ducales  dans  les  vieilles  valenciennes, 

Mains  royales  sur  les  ^pinettes.     Antiennes 
Des  6v6ques  devant  Monseigneur  le  Dauphin. 


Albert  Samain  95 

Gestes  de  menuet  et  coeurs  de  biscuit  fin ; 

Et  ces  graces  que  Ton  disait  Autrichiennes  .  .  . 

Princesses  de  sang  bleu,  dont  Tame  d'apparat, 

Des  siecles,  au  plus  pur  des  castes  macera. 

Grands  seigneurs  pailletes  d'esprit.     Marquis  de  s^vres. 

Tout  un  monde  galant,  vif ,  brave,  exquis  et  fou, 

Avec  sa  fine  ep^e  en  verrouil,  et  surtout 

Ce  mepris  de  la  mort,  comme  une  fleur,  avix  levres ! 


Ill 

Mes  pas  ont  suscite  les  prestiges  enfuis. 
O  psyche  de  vieux  saxe  ovi  le  Passe  se  mire  .  .  . 
C'est  ici  que  la  reine,  en  ecoutant  Zemire, 
R^veuse,  s'eventait  dans  la  tiedeur  des  nuits. 

O  visions  :  paniers,  poudre  et  mouches ;  et  puis, 
Leger  comme  un  parfum,  joli  comme  un  sourire 
C'est  cet  air  vieille  France  ici  que  tout  respire ; 
Et  toujours  cette  odeur  penetrante  des  buis  .  .  . 

Mais  ce  qui  prend  mon  coeur  d'une  etreinte  infinie, 
Aux  rayons  d'un  long  soir  dorant  son  agonie, 
C'est  ce  Grand-Trianon  solitaire  et  royal, 

Et  son  perron  desert  ou  I'automne,  si  douce, 
Laisse  pendre,  en  revant,  sa  chevelure  rousse 
Sur  I'eau  divinement  triste  du  grand  canal. 


96  Six  French  Poets 

IV 

Le  bosquet  de  Vertumne  est  delaisse  des  Graces. 
Cette  ombre,  qui,  de  marbre  en  marbre  gemissant, 
Se  traine  et  se  retient  d'un  beau  bras  languissant, 
Helas,  c'est  le  Genie  en  deuil  des  vieilles  races. 

O  Palais,  horizon  supreme  des  terrasses, 
Un  peu  de  vos  beaut  es  coule  dans  notre  sang ; 
Et  c'est  ce  qui  vous  donne  un  indicible  accent, 
Quand  un  couchant  sublime  illumine  vos  glaces ! 

Gloires  dont  tant  de  jours  vous  futes  le  decor, 
Ames  etincelant  sous  les  lustres.     Soirs  d'or. 
Versailles  .  .  .  Mais  deja  s'amasse  la  nuit  sombre. 

Et  mon  coeur  tout  a  coup  se  serre,  car  j'entends, 

Comme  un  belier  sinistre  aux  mur allies  du  temps, 

Toujours,  le  grand  bruit  sourd  de  ces  flots  noirs  dans  I'ombre. 

A  new  vigour,  utterly  foreign  to  the  other  volumes, 
is  here.  Occasionally,  something  almost  like  humour 
and  animal  spirits  creeps  in.  Here  are  two  little 
sonnets  called  Paysages,  in  which  Samain  shows  the 
Flemish  love  of  painting : 

PAYSAGES 
I 

L'air  est  trois  fois  leger.     Sous  le  ciel  trois  fois  pur, 
Le  vieux  bourg  qui  s'efifrite  en  ses  noires  murailles 
Ce  clair  matin  d'hiver  sourit  sous  ses  pierrailles 
A  ses  monts  familiers  qui  re  vent  dans  I'azur  .  .  . 


Albert  Saniain  97 


Une  dalle  encastree,  en  son  latin  obscur, 

Parle  apres  deux  mille  ans  d'antiques  funerailles. 

Cesar  passait  ici  pour  gagner  ses  batailles, 

Un  oiseau  du  printemps  chante  sur  le  vieux  mur  .  .  . 

Bruissante  sous  1 'ombre  en  dentelle  d'un  arbre, 
La  fontaine  sculpt  ee  en  sa  vasque  de  marbre 
Fait  briller  au  soleil  quatre  filets  d'argent. 

Et  pendant  qu'a  travers  la  marmaille  accourue 
La  diligence  jaune  entre  dans  la  grand 'rue, 
La  tour  du  Signador  jette  I'heure  en  songeant. 

II 

L'horloger,  pale  et  fin,  travaille  avec  douceur ; 
Vagues,  le  seuil  beant,  somnolent  les  boutiques  ; 
Et  d'un  trottoir  a  I'autre  ainsi  qu'aux  temps  antiques 
Les  saluts  du  matin  echangent  leur  candeur. 

Panonceaux  du  notaire  et  plaque  du  docteur  .  .  . 
A  la  fontaine  un  gars  fait  boire  ses  bourriques ; 
Et  vers  le  catechisme  en  files  symetriques 
Des  petits  enfants  vont,  conduits  par  une  sceur. 

Un  rayon  de  soleil  darde  comme  une  fleche 

Fait  tout  a  coup  chanter  une  voix  claire  et  fraiche 

Dans  la  ruelle  obscure  ainsi  qu'un  corridor. 

De  la  montagne  il  sort  des  ruisselets  en  foule, 

Et  partout  c'est  un  bruit  d'eau  vive  qui  s'ecoule 

De  I'aube  au  front  d'argent  jusqu'au  soir  aux  yeux  d'or. 

H 


98  Six  French  Poets 

There  is  certainly  humour  in  the  yellow  diligence, 
and  in  the  door-plates  of  the  doctor  and  notary. 

La  Cuisine  is  the  most  Flemish  thing  that  Samain 
ever  did.  It  is  a  whole  palette  of  shouting  colours, 
and  as  realistic  as  Zola's  still  life  pictures  in  Le 
Ventre  de  Paris. 

LA  CUISINE 

Dans  la  cuisine  ou  flotte  une  senteur  de  thym, 
Au  retour  du  marche,  comme  un  soir  de  butin, 
S'entassent  pele-mele  avec  les  lourdes  viandes 
Les  poireaux,  les  radis,  les  oignons  en  guirlandes, 
Les  grands  choux  violets,  le  rouge  potiron, 
La  tomate  vernie  et  le  pale  citron. 
Comme  un  grand  cerf -volant  la  raie  enorme  et  plate 
Git  fouill6e  au  couteau,  d'une  plaie  ecarlate. 
Un  li^vre  au  poll  rougi  traine  sur  les  paves 
Avec  des  yeux  pareils  a  des  raisins  creves. 
D'un  tas  d'huitres  vide  d'un  panier  couvert  d'algues 
Monte  I'odeur  du  large  et  la  fraicheur  des  vagues. 
Les  cailles,  les  perdreaux  au  doux  ventre  ardoise 
Laissent,  du  sang  au  bee,  pendre  leur  cou  brise ; 
C'est  un  6tal  vibrant  de  fruits  verts,  de  legumes, 
De  nacre,  d'argent  clair,  d'ecailles  et  de  plumes. 
Un  trongon  de  saumon  saigne  et,  vivant  encor, 
Un  grand  homard  de  bronze,  achete  sur  le  port, 
Parmi  la  victuaille  au  hasard  entassee, 
Agite,  agonisant,  une  antenne  cass6e. 

One  more  quotation  and  I  have  done.  It  is  a 
poem  with  the  title  Nocturne  Provincial,  and  it  is 


Albert  Safnain  99 

modern  —  yes,  modern,  as  we  to-day  understand 
the  term  —  in  subject,  in  treatment,  even  in  its 
changing  rhythms. 

NOCTURNE  PROVINCIAL 

La  petite  ville  sans  bruit 

Dort  profondement  dans  la  nuit. 

Aux  vietix  reverberes  a  branches 
Agonise  un  gaz  indigent ; 
Mais  soudain  la  lune  emergeant 
Fait  tout  au  long  des  maisons  blanches 
Resplendir  des  vitres  d 'argent. 

La  nuit  tiede  s'evente  au  long  des  marronniers  .  .  . 
La  nuit  tardive,  ou  flotte  encor  de  la  lumi^re. 
Tout  est  noir  et  desert  aux  anciens  quartiers ; 
Mon  ame,  accoude-toi  sur  le  vieux  pont  de  pierre, 
Et  respire  la  bonne  odeur  de  la  riviere. 

Le  silence  est  si  grand  que  mon  coeur  en  frissonne. 
Seul,  le  bruit  de  mes  pas  sur  le  pave  resonne. 
Le  silence  tressaille  au  coeur,  et  minuit  Sonne ! 

Au  long  des  grands  murs  d'un  couvent 
Des  feuilles  bruissent  au  vent. 
Pensionnaires  .  .  .  Orphelines  .  .  . 
Rubans  bleus  sur  les  pelerines  .  .  . 
C'est  le  jardin  des  Ursulines. 


100  Six  French  Poets 

Une  brise  a  travers  les  grilles 
Passe  aussi  douce  qu'un  soupir. 
Et  cette  etoile  aux  feux  tranquilles, 
La-bas,  semble,  au  fond  des  charmilles, 
Une  veilleuse  de  saphir. 

Oh  !  sous  les  toits  d'ardoise  a  la  lune  pMis, 

Les  vierges  et  leur  pur  sommeil  aux  chambres  claires, 

Et  leurs  petits  cous  ronds  noues  de  scapulaires, 

Et  leurs  corps  sans  peche  dans  la  blancheur  des  lits !   . 

D'une  heure  egale  ici  I'heure  egale  est  suivie, 

Et  r  Innocence  en  paix  dort  au  bord  de  la  vie  .  .  . 

Triste  et  deserte  infiniment 
Sous  le  clair  de  lune  electrique, 
Voici  que  la  place  historique 
Aligne  solennellement 
Ses  vieux  hotels  du  Parlement. 

A  I'angle,  une  fen^tre  est  eclairee  encor. 
Une  lampe  est  1^-haut,  qui  veille  quand  tout  dort ! 
Sous  le  irtXe  tissu,  qui  tamise  sa  flamme, 
Furtive,  par  instants,  glisse  une  ombre  de  femme. 

La  fen^tre  s'entr'ouvre  un  peu  ; 

Et  la  femme,  poignant  aveu, 

Tord  ses  beaux  bras  nus  dans  I'air  bleu  ,  .  . 


Albert  Samain  loi 


O  secretes  ardeurs  des  nuits  provinciales  ! 
Coeurs  qui  brulent !     Cheveux  en  desordre  epandus  ! 
Beaux  seins  lourds  de  desirs,  petris  par  des  mains  pales  ! 
Grands  appels  suppliants,  et  jamais  entendus ! 

Je  vous  evoque,  6  vous,  amantes  ignorees, 
Dont  la  chair  se  consume  ainsi  qu'un  vain  flambeau, 
Et  qui  sur  vos  beaux  corps  pleurez,  desesperees, 
Et  faites  pour  I'amour,  et  d'amour  devorees, 
Vous  coucherez,  un  soir,  vierges  dans  le  tombeau ! 

Et  mon  ame  pensive,  a  Tangle  de  la  place, 
Fixe  toujours  la-bas  la  vitre  ou  I'ombre  passe. 

Le  rideau  frele  au  vent  frissonne  ... 
La  lampe  meurt  .  .  .     Une  heure  sonne. 
Personne,  personne,  personne. 

There  are  other  parts  to  the  book.  Parts  not  so 
interesting,  not  so  different.  We  know  that  many 
of  the  poems  in  the  volume  date  from  the  time  of 
Au  Jardin  de  V Infante.  Which  ones  are  they?  I 
wonder.  Were  the  ones  we  think  more  modern 
really  written  later,  or  did  Samain,  at  one  time  in 
his  career,  confuse  art  with  artificiality,  and  elimi- 
nate these  poems  as  less  good  than  others?  Here 
they  are,  beautiful  works  of  art  for  us  to  speculate 
upon,  and  proofs  of  the  power  of  the  modern  world, 
which  imposes  itself  upon  us  whether  we  will  or  not. 


102  Six  French  Poets 

In  closing,  I  cannot  help  asking  myself  the  ques- 
tion :  Have  I  evoked  a  man  for  you  ?  Have  I 
shown  him  as  he  was :  a  genius,  graceful,  timid, 
proud,  passionate,  and  reserved  ?  Let  me  end  by 
two  quotations,  descriptions,  by  men  who  knew  him. 
The  first  one  is  in  a  letter  from  the  poet  Robert  de 
Montesquiou  ;  he  says:  "I  had  occasion  to  meet 
the  author  of  Au  Jardin  de  V Infante  at  the  house  of 
a  mutual  friend.  .  .  .  The  simplicity  of  his  atti- 
tude and  manners,  the  dignity  of  his  life,  could 
only  add  to  the  predilection  his  works  had  inspired. 
But  his  life  was  shut  like  his  soul,  fastened  as  well. 
One  could  only,  one  would  wish  only,  to  distract  it 
for  brief  moments.  The  rest  resolves  itself  into  the 
pure,  tender,  penetrating  songs  which  are  his  books. 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Albert  Samain  many 
times.  .  .  .  He  always  showed  himself  reserved 
without  affectation,  the  result  of  his  distinguished 
and  discreet  nature." 

The  other  quotation  is  Francis  Jammes*  elegy  on 
Albert  Samain: 

ELEGIE   PREMIERE 
A  Albert  Samain 

Mon  cher  Samain,  c'est  k  toi  que  j'ecris  encore. 
C'est  la  premiere  fois  que  j  'envoie  k  la  mort 
ces  lignes  que  t'apportera,  demain,  au  ciel, 
quelque  vieux  serviteur  d'un  hameau  eternel. 
Souris-moi  pour  que  je  ne  pleure  pas.     Dis-moi : 
"Je  ne  suis  pas  si  malade  que  tu  le  crois." 


Albert  Samain  103 

Ouvre  ma  porte  encore,  ami.     Passe  mon  seuil 

et  dis-moi  en  entrant :   "  Pourquoi  es-tu  en  deuil  ?  " 

Viens  encore.     C'est  Orthez  ou  tu  es.     Bonheur  iest  1^. 

Pose  done  ton  chapeau  sur  la  chaise  qui  est  la. 

Tu  as  soif  ?    Void  de  I'eau  de  puits  bleue  et  du  vin. 

Ma  mere  va  descendre  et  te  dire  :   "Samain  ..." 

et  ma  chienne  appuyer  son  museau  sur  ta  main. 

Je  parle.     Tu  souris  d'un  serieux  sourire. 

Le  temps  n'existe  pas.     Et  tu  me  laisses  dire. 

Le  soir  vient.     Nous  marchons  dans  la  limiiere  jaune 

qui  fait  les  fins  du  jour  ressembler  a  I'Automne. 

Et  nous  longeons  le  gave.     Une  colombe  rauque 

gemit  tout  doucement  dans  im  peuplier  glauque. 

Je  bavarde.     Tu  souris  encore.     Bonheur  se  tait. 

Voici  la  route  obscure  au  declin  de  I'Ete, 

voici  I'ombre  a  genoux  pres  des  belles-de-nuit 

qui  ornent  les  seuils  noirs  ou  la  fumee  bleuit. 

Ta  mort  ne  change  rien.     L'ombre  que  tu  aimais, 

oti  tu  vivais,  ou  tu  souffrais,  ou  tu  chantais, 

c'est  nous  qui  la  quittons  et  c'est  toi  qui  la  gardes. 

Ta  lumiere  naquit  de  cette  obscurite 

qui  nous  pousse  a  genoux  par  ces  beaux  soirs  d'Ete 

ou,  flairant  Dieu  qui  passe  et  fait  vivre  les  bles, 

sous  les  liserons  noirs  aboient  les  chiens  de  garde. 

Je  ne  regrette  pas  ta  mort.     D'autres  mettront 
le  laurier  qui  convient  aux  rides  de  ton  front. 
Moi,  j'aurais  peur  de  te  blesser,  te  connaissant. 
II  ne  faut  pas  cacher  aux  enfants  de  seize  ans 
qui  suivront  ton  cercueil  en  pleurant  sur  ta  lyre, 
la  gloire  de  ceux-la  qui  meurent  le  front  libre. 


104  "^^^  French  Poets 

Je  ne  regret te  pas  ta  mort.     Ta  vie  est  1^. 

Comme  la  voix  du  vent  qui  berce  les  lilas 

ne  meurt  point,  mais  revient  apres  bien  des  annees 

dans  les  memes  lilas  qu'on  avait  cru  fanes, 

tes  chants,  mon  cher  Samain,  reviendront  pour  bercer 

les  enfants  que  deja  milrissent  nos  pensees. 

Sur  ta  tombe,  pareil  k  quel  que  patre  antique 
dont  pleure  le  troupeau  sur  la  pauvre  coUine, 
je  chercherais  en  vain  ce  que  je  peux  porter. 
Le  sel  serait  mange  par  I'agneau  des  ravines 
et  le  vin  serait  bu  par  ceux  qui  font  pille. 

Je  songe  k  toi.    Le  jour  baisse  comme  ce  jour 
o\x  je  te  vis  dans  mon  vieux  salon  de  campagne. 
Je  songe  a  toi.     Je  songe  aux  montagnes  natales. 
Je  songe  a  ce  Versailles  ou  tu  me  promenas, 
ou  nous  disions  des  vers,  tristes  et  pas  a  pas. 
Je  songe  a  ton  ami  et  je  songe  a  ta  mere. 
Je  songe  a  ces  moutons  qui,  au  bord  du  lac  bleu, 
en  attendant  la  mort  belaient  sur  leurs  clarines. 

Je  songe  a  toi.     Je  songe  au  vide  pur  des  cieux. 
Je  songe  a  I'eau  sans  fin,  k  la  clarte  des  feux. 
Je  songe  a  la  rosee  qui  brille  sur  les  vignes. 
Je  songe  a  toi.    Je  songe  a  moi.    Je  songe  k  Dieu. 

It  Is  all  in  that  one  line  :   "Knowing  you,  I  feared 
to  wound  you." 


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REMY   DE   GOURMONT 


REMY   DE   GOURMONT 

Of  the  six  poets  whom  I  have  chosen  for  the  sub- 
jects of  these  essays,  It  is  certain  that  the  one  for 
whom  Anglo-Saxon  readers  must  feel  the  least  sym- 
pathy is  Remy  de  Gourmont.  He  is  also  the  one 
who,  considered  strictly  as  poet,  must  be  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  least  considerable.  Out  of  the  forty- 
one,  or  so,  volumes  which  he  has  published,  his 
poetry  is  easily  contained  in  one  volume  and  some 
thirty  pages  of  another.  And  nowhere  among  his 
poems  is  there  one  which  can  be  considered  a  master- 
piece. As  a  masterpiece  of  pure  poetry,  I  should 
say,  for  of  masterpieces  of  cunning  verbal  nuances 
there  are  several. 

Why  then,  it  may  very  well  be  asked,  include  him 
among  my  six  poets?  Because  no  one  of  the  later 
period  of  French  literature  has  been  more  prominent 
than  he,  and  no  one  has  had  a  greater  influence 
upon  the  generation  of  writers  that  have  followed 
his.  He  has  had  this  influence  directly,  through  his 
poems ;  and  indirectly,  by  his  critical  writings  and 
philological  studies. 

107 


io8  Six  French  Poets 

As  it  used  to  be  said  that  Meredith  was  the 
writer's  writer,  I  might  say  that  Gourmont  is  the 
poet  for  poets.  He  is  the  great  teacher  of  certain 
effects,  the  instructor  in  verbal  shades.  No  one 
has  studied  more  carefully  than  he  the  sounds  of 
vowels  and  consonants.  Not  even  from  his  great 
teacher,  Mallarme,  can  more  be  learnt.  As  a 
producer  of  colour  in  words,  he  cedes  to  no  one ; 
his  knowledge  of  the  technique  of  poetry  is  un- 
surpassed. 

"Poet,  critic,  dramatist,  savant,  biologist,  philoso- 
pher, novelist,  philologian  and  grammarian,"  is 
the  way  the  editors  of  Poetes  d'Aujourd'hui  style 
him.  And  really,  the  extent  of  his  literary  activity 
take  one's  breath  away.  Of  course,  the  danger  to 
such  a  man  is  in  the  almost  inevitable  Jack-of-all- 
Trades  result  which  such  a  multitude  of  avocations 
trails  along  with  it.  It  is  heresy  to  whisper  such  a 
thing,  but  it  cannot  really  be  denied  that  in  only 
one  of  these  branches  has  Gourmont  made  himself 
supreme.  But  in  that  he  has  no  equal.  The 
aesthetic  of  the  French  language  (to  borrow  one 
of  his  own  titles) ;  there  he  is  on  absolutely  indis- 
putable ground. 

Yet  it  would  not  be  fair  to  give  you  the  idea  that 
he  has  done  merely  well  along  his  other  lines.  Can 
a  man  so  conversant  with  the  art  of  writing  ever 
write  merely  well  ?  Gourmont's  novels  and  tales 
are  among  the  best  of  the  last  twenty  years,  only 


Remy  de  Gourmont  109 

others  have  surpassed  him  ;  the  same  is  true  of  his 
poems.  But  the  way  he  has  written,  no  one  can 
surpass  him  there ;  and  we,  who  try  to  write,  mull 
over  his  pages  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  endeavour  to 
<  learn  the  lesson  which  he  has  analyzed  and  illus- 
trated for  us.  Along  with  that  is  another  lesson, 
written  as  clearly  in  his  pages,  of  what  not  to  do,  of 
the  necessity  for  singleness  of  purpose,  of  the  terrible 
pitfall  looming  always  before  the  man  who  is  at 
once  an  artist  and  an  insatiably  curious  person. 

Great,  excessively  great,  people  can  do  it.  Leo- 
nardo da  Vinci  did  it.  He  pulled  the  two  characters 
along  side  by  side,  to  the  profit  of  both.  But  Remy 
de  Gourmont  has  not  quite  done  it,  and  it  is  natural 
to  suppose  that  the  literary  masterpieces  he  might 
have  made  have  wasted  away  while  he  dabbled  in 
science.  Physique  de  f  Amour  is  a  most  interesting 
volume  on  the  sexual  instinct  in  animals.  But 
there  are  many  books  on  the  subject  by  others  more 
competent  for  the  task.  And  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing it  a  little  odd  that  this  should  be  the  only  purely 
scientific  essay  he  has  written.  Interesting  though 
it  is,  contemplated  in  Its  place  among  Gourmont's 
work  as  a  whole,  should  we  not  consider  it  as  an- 
other evidence  of  that  preoccupation  with  sex  which 
has  robbed  his  books  of  the  large  view  they  might 
have  had?  It  cannot  be  denied  that  a  man  who 
plays  perpetually  upon  an  instrument  of  one  string  is 
confining  himself  within  a  very  small  musical  compass. 


no  Six  French  Poets 

Is  Gourmont's  work  so  diversified  after  all  ?  Yes, 
and  no.  But  let  us  work  up  to  these  considera- 
tions gradually,  and  examine  them  in  their  proper 
place. 

Remy  de  Gourmont  was  born  in  the  Chateau  of 
La  Motte  at  Bazoches-en-Houlme,  in  Normandy, 
on  the  fourth  of  April,  1858.  He  is  the  descendant 
of  a  remarkable  family  of  painters,  engravers,  and 
printers,  of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries. 
One  of  the  family,  Gilles  de  Gourmont,  was  the  first 
person  in  Paris  to  use  Greek  and  Hebrew  types  in 
printing.  On  his  mother's  side,  Gourmont  is  directly 
descended  from  the  family  of  Frangois  de  Malherbe 
—  the  great  Malherbe,  of  whom  Boileau  said,  "He 
was  the  master  of  our  great  classic  writers." 

Of  the  youth  of  Remy  de  Gourmont  I  know  noth- 
ing, as  the  only  real  biography  of  him  I  have  been 
unable  to  get.  But,  in  1883,  he  came  up  to  Paris, 
like  all  energetic  young  Frenchmen  with  intellectual 
tendencies,  and  obtained  a  position  in  the  Biblio- 
theque  Nationale.  Here  he  remained  until  1891, 
when  an  article  of  his  called  Le  Joujou  Patriotisme 
was  too  much  for  the  authorities,  and  he  lost  his 
position. 

His  first  book,  a  novel  called  Merlette,  appeared 
in  1886,  and  very  little  of  his  real  originality  ap- 
peared in  it,  although  it  contained  pleasant  de- 
scriptions of  Normandy.  His  next  book,  Sixtine, 
came  out   in    1890.     Its   second    title  was   Roman 


Remy  de  Gourmont  iii 

de  la  Vie  Cerebrale,  and  that  might  stand  as  sub- 
title for  all  his  work.     Oh,  the  delightful  book  that 

'  Sixtine  is !  I  remember  reading  it  in  a  sort  of 
breathless  interest.     The  hero  is  a  writer,  and  every- 

( thing   that   happens   to   him   he   translates   almost 

^  bodily  into  his  work.  Two  stories  are  carried  on 
at  the  same  time,  the  real  one  and  the  one  he  is 
writing.  The  chapters  follow  each  other  with  no 
regular  order,  the  reader  only  knows  which  story  is 
which  by  the  context,  and  the  incidents  of  the 
written  story  are  sometimes  all  he  learns  of  the  real 
story,  which  is  taken  up  again  later  at  a  point  farther 
on. 

But  what  a  childish  way  to  tell  of  a  book  so  full 
of  startling  revolutionism !  Sixtine  is  indeed  a 
novel  of  the  life  of  the  brain.  Gourmont  wishes 
to  prove  that  the  world  is  only  a  simulacrum,  and 
the  perception  of  it  hallucinatory.  Sixtine  is  meta- 
physics masking  as  a  story,  and  Hubert  d'Entrague 
is  the  Gourmont  of  the  period,  with  his  knowledge, 
his  curiosity,  and,  too,  his  sensual  side.  But,  incon- 
ceivable undercurrent  though  it  has,  it  has  an  appear- 

•  ance  of  firm  ground.  Paris  is  there,  with  its  quais, 
its  Luxembourg,  its  boulevards,  its  Museum,  its 
Bibliotheque  Nationale ;  and  Normandy  is  there, 
with  its  fields  and  apple  orchards.  And  here  is  that 
wonderful  writing,  that  gift  of  words.  I  will  quote 
two  passages  from  it,  both  in  prose.  (A  poem  which 
is  also  in  the  book  I  wish  to  keep  until  we  reach  his 


112  Six  French  Poets 

poetry.)  The  first  of  these  passages  is  about  a  sort 
of  ghostly  apparition  which  appears  in  a  mirror. 
Notice  the  colours,  and  the  way  the  figure  is  gradually 
drawn  out  of  the  glass : 

J'ai  vu  le  portrait.  La  lune  pMe  et  verte  planait  dans  ma 
chambre ;  je  venais  de  me  reveiller  et  d'obscures  et  ophidiennes 
visions  me  hantaient  encore.  L'oeil  fievreux,  je  regardais  autour 
de  moi  avec  defiance.  .  .  .  Etais-je  dans  ma  chambre  et  dans 
mon  lit?  .  .  .  Peut-etre.  Voila  qu'au-dessus  de  la  cheminee 
la  glace  lentement  change  de  teinte :  son  vert  lunaire,  son  vert 
d'eau  transparente  sous  des  saules  s'avive  et  se  dore.  On  dirait 
qu'au  centre  de  la  lueur,  comme  sur  la  face  meme  de  la  lune, 
des  ombres  se  projettent  avec  des  apparences  de  traits  humains, 
tandis  qu 'autour  de  la  vague  figure  une  ondulation  lumineuse 
serpente  comme  des  cheveux  blonds  denoues  et  flottants. 

Vert  lunaire  —  those  words  in  ere  are  favourites 
with  Gourmont,  we  shall  meet  them  many  times. 
Also,  the  green  light  of  the  moon  is  nice,  and,  inci- 
dentally, true. 

The  other  is  the  description  of  a  Madonna  over 
the  door  of  a  church  in  Naples.  In  the  names  of  the 
unusual  stones,  we  see  an  evidence  of  Gourmont' s 
wide  knowledge : 

Une  eglise  de  fuyants  contreforts,  ecrasee  et  lourde,  attirait 
d'abord  le  regard  inexperimente  et  par  la  splendeur  de  sa  Madone 
enrubannee  le  fixait.  Quand  le  soleil  declinant  allait  au  fond  de 
la  niche  ogivale  la  baigner  de  rayons,  les  rubis  et  les  peridots  de  sa 
tiare,  les  lepidolithes  et  les  topazes,  aureole  etoilee,  reverberaient 
I'eclat  d'autant  d'astres  et  la  figure  aux  yeux  diamantes  extasiait. 


Remy  de  Gourmont  113 

Not  only  do  we  get  the  brilliance  of  the  sunset 
lighting  up  the  church  and  its  Madonna,  the  sound 
is  not  sacrificed  to  the  picture,  extraordinarily  vivid 
though  that  is.  Listen  to  the  different  vowel  sounds 
before  the  I's  in  aureole  etoilee ;  and  the  s's,  and  ai 
sound,  in  the  last  line. 

Properly  speaking,  these  are  not  poems.  They 
are  written  as  prose  and  Intended  to  be  prose,  but 
Gourmont  himself  has  said,  "beautiful  prose  should 
have  a  rhythm  which  makes  one  doubt  If  it  be 
prose.  Buffon  wrote  only  poems,  and  Bossuet  and 
Chateaubriand  and  Flaubert." 

In  an  interview  accorded  to  a  representative  of 
the  Echo  de  Paris,  shortly  after  the  publication  of 
Sixtine,  Gourmont  says,  "They  tell  me  that  In  my 
recently  published  novel,  Sixtine,  I  have  produced 
Symbolisme.     Now  behold  my  Innocence.     I  never 
guessed  It.     Nevertheless,  I  learned  it  without  great 
astonishment :  unconsciousness  plays  so  large  a  part 
in  intellectual  operations.     I  even  believe  it  plays 
the  greatest  of  all."     Certainly,  Remy  de  Gourmont 
had   "produced  Symbolisme,''   as  unconsciously  as 
most    of    the    Symbolistes    produced    It    at    first. 
'*  Symbolisme  Is  an  attitude  of  mind,  not  a  school," 
as  Tancrede  de  Visan  very  well  says,  in  his  V Atti- 
tude du  Lyrisme   Contemporain,   "a   lyric  Ideal  in 
conformity  with  other  tendencies  of  modern   life." 
To  understand  what  this  lyric  Ideal  was,  and  how  It 
came  about,  we  must  go  back  a  little.     No  study  of 


114  •^'^^  French  Poets 

Remy  de  Gourmont  can  be  complete  without  taking 
him  in  connection  with  the  Symboliste  movement. 

Poetry,  Hke  all  art,  is  organic.  It  is  endowed 
with  a  life  of  its  own,  and  must  naturally  carry  within 
it  the  seeds  of  evolution  and  change.  Every  true 
artistic  movement  is  a  necessary  movement  toward 
maturity.  It  is  as  silly  to  attempt  to  stop  the 
artistic  clock,  as  it  was  for  King  Canute  to  forbid 
the  advance  of  the  waves.  It  is  the  eternal  penance 
of  the  artist  to  be  in  advance  of  the  people.  Writ- 
ing to  be  read  (otherwise  why  write!),  the  true 
artist  can  seldom  write  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  actual 
public.  If  he  lives  to  a  reasonable  age,  the  public 
may  come  round  to  him,  but  his  beginnings  will 
always  be  looked  upon  with  suspicion. 

Every  artist  knows  this,  and  yet  every  artist  rails 
against  the  besotted  ignorance  of  the  public,  as  if 
he  were  the  only  person  who  had  ever  experienced 
the  phenomenon,  and  his  time  the  only  one  in  which 
it  had  appeared. 

Remy  de  Gourmont,  and  the  men  of  his  age,  came 
along  at  the  heels  of  the  Romantic  Movement. 
Musset  and  Hugo  were  dead,  so  was  Baudelaire, 
who  might  be  called  the  last  of  the  Romantics.  As 
a  protest  against  the  somewhat  turgid  manner  Into 
which  Romanticism  had  fallen,  a  small  group  of 
men,  notably  Theophile  Gautler,  Leconte  de  Lisle, 
and  Jose-Maria  de  Heredia,  took  to  writing  poems  of 
severe,  plastic  beauty,  deprived  of  over-rich  orna- 


Remy  de  Gourmont  115 

ment,  and  delighting  by  their  sharp  and  beautiful 
contours.  Their  verses  were  so  cold  as  to  be  almost 
frozen  into  immobility,  but  instead  of  Hugo's  moral 
preoccupations,  they  propounded  the  theory  of 
"art  for  art's  sake,"  then  a  new  and  vigorous  battle- 
cry.  These  men  form  the  Parnassian  School. 
Theirs  was  a  protest  against  fantasticality.  And 
extraordinarily  different  though  it  appears  to  be, 
this  movement  was  prompted  by  the  same  protest 
which  in  prose  produced  first  Flaubert,  then  De 
Maupassant  and  Zola:  the  Realistic  School  of 
Fiction. 

The  poetry  of  the  Parnassian  School  is  very  beau- 
tiful, but  it  hardly  lends  itself  to  the  expression  of 
all  the  phases  of  our  complex  modern  life.  Mal- 
larme,  in  love  with  pure  sound,  could  not  content 
himself  within  an  art  which  was  almost  entirely 
sculpture.  Verlaine,  choking  with  emotions,  filled 
with  lyric  despairs,  found  no  relief  in  carving  beau- 
tiful cameos.  These  men  broke  away  from  the 
Parnassian  School,  and  each  in  his  way  attempted 
to  widen  the  scope  of  French  poetry. 

Mallarme  is  the  great  master  of  the  later  Sym- 
bolistes.  His  was  an  original  contribution  to  French 
poetry.  And  original  contributions,  as  we  shall 
see  in  a  moment,  were  the  foundation  stones  of  the 
Symholiste  movement.  Mallarme  formed  a  theory 
that  poetry  lies  more  in  the  sound  of  words  than 
in  their  sense.     He  did  not  break  away  from  the 


ii6  Six  French  Poets 

classic  alexandrine,  but  made  it  more  undulating  and 
tuneful. 

Veriaine  had  no  particular  theory  except  to  ex- 
press himself  (also  a  thoroughly  Symbolistic  point 
of  view)  ;  but  he  found  this  impossible  in  the  shin- 
ing ice  of  the  alexandrine.  He  fell  back  to  the  old 
ballad  metres,  and  Ronsard.  He,  too,  was  pre- 
occupied with  sound.  "De  la  musique  avant  toute 
chose,"  he  has  said. 

With  Mallarme  and  Veriaine  the  SymhoUste  move- 
ment may  be  said  to  be  fairly  started.  But  Mal- 
larme and  Veriaine  were  not  called  Symbolistes,  at 
first,  they  were  called  Decadents,  partly  because 
Mallarme  was  known  to  have  studied  and  been 
influenced  by  the  Latin  writers  of  the  Decadence, 
partly  because  these  lines  appeared  in  Veriaine' s 
first  book : 

Je  suis  TEmpire  a  la  fin  de  la  decadence. 

That  did  it,  and  the  unfortunate  and  unfair 
appellation  was  lanced.  It  was  after  hearing  this 
line  recited  in  a  cafe  in  the  Quartier  Latin,  that  Paul 
Adam  founded  a  little  paper  and  bravely  called  it 
La  Decadence,  and  other  young  men  followed  with 
another  little  sheet  called  Le  Decadent. 

It  was  a  silly  name.  One  of  the  greatest  periods 
of  French  poetry  was  the  result  of  these  so-called 
Decadents.  Never  has  there  been  a  more  fertile 
moment    in    any    literature.     Talents   rose    to    the 


Remy  de  Gourmont  wj 

surface  every  day.  And  the  great  Parisian  public 
went  about  its  business  quite  unconscious,  feted 
its  Coppees,  and  Octave  Feuillets ;  and  if  it 
thought  of  these  new  men  at  all,  thought  of  them 
only  to  scoff.  'Twas  ever  thus,  and  we  need  not 
be  surprised  that  Paris,  clever  though  she  be,  is 
not  entirely  apart  from  the  stream  of  common 
humanity. 

Naturally,  their  writings  were  not  welcomed  in 
the  regular  reviews,  and  the  poets  were  reduced  to 
printing  little  sheets  of  their  own.  One  of  these, 
and  one  which  Gourmont  calls  the  most  singular 
of  all,  was  named  La  Cravache.  It  was  a  ridiculous 
little  paper,  where  finance  alternated  with  litera- 
ture, and  the  printer  cared  very  little  what  went 
into  it,  provided  that  the  first  three  pages  were 
filled.  Georges  Lecomte  discovered  this  small 
journal,  and  with  Adolph  Rette  made  it  one  of  the 
most  curious  literary  gazettes  which  it  is  possible 
to  imagine.  The  contributors  were  Huysmans, 
Moreas,  Henri  de  Regnier,  Kahn,  Viele-Grifiin, 
Paul  Adam,  Hennique,  Charles  Morice,  Feneon,  — 
and  finally,  Verlaine.  It  was  in  the  obscure  Cravache 
that  the  first  version  of  his  volume,  Parallelement, 
appeared.  Verlaine  had  already  published  Sagesse, 
but  still  no  other  journal  in  Paris  was  open  to  his 
poems.  In  the  Cravache  also,  Huysmans*  study  on 
La  Bievre  was  printed,  and  Viele-Griffin's  transla- 
tions of  Walt  Whitman's  poems. 


ii8  Six  French  Poets 

Gourmont  remarks,  with  what  seems  to  us, 
aware  of  the  conditions  both  here  and  in  England, 
a  strange  optimism  :  "I  beheve  that  only  in  France 
is  such  a  thing  possible.  Ten  writers  and  poets  of 
talent,  of  whom  one  is  Verlaine  and  another  Huys- 
mans,  to  whom  all  the  serious  newspapers  are  closed, 
and  practically  all  the  reviews." 

La  Cravache  was  not  the  only  little  review ;  there 
were  a  great  many  others,  among  them  La  Vogue, 
La  Pleiade,  and  Le  Scapin,  this  last  edited  by  a 
young  man  named  Alfred  Vallette.  Toward  the 
end  of  1889,  some  one  approached  Gourmont  and 
asked  him  to  collaborate  in  a  little  review  to  be 
called  Le  Mercure  de  France  and  edited  by  this 
same  Alfred  Vallette.  He  consented,  and  in  so  doing 
became  one  of  the  founders  of  that  now  famous 
publication,  together  with  Samain,  R^gnier,  and 
all  the  others  of  their  group.  Of  course,  there  was 
no  money,  and  to  meet  this  difficulty  so-called 
"Founders'  Shares"  were  issued,  at  sixty  francs  a 
share.  The  founders  seem  to  have  been  able  to 
compass  that,  the  richest  man  among  them,  Jules 
Renard,  buying  four. 

The  Mercure  de  France  instantly  leapt  into  fame, 
because  of  a  series  of  satirical  ballads  by  Laurent 
Tailhade,  Foil  de  Carotte  by  Jules  Renard,  and  the 
delicate  verses  of  Albert  Samain.  Saint- Pol-Roux, 
who  called  himself  an  "ideo-realiste,"  contributed  a 
series  of  short  poems  in  rhythmic  prose,  notably 


Remy  de  Gourmont  119 

Le  Pelerinage  de  St.  Anne.  The  Merciire  also  became 
famous  for  its  critics,  not  the  least  of  these  being 
Remy  de  Gourmont  himself.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  that,  until  1914,  no  number  had  come  out  with- 
out something  from  his  pen,  either  poetry,  novel, 
tale,  or  criticism. 

Since  1895,  the  Mercure  has  become  the  official 
organ  of  the  Symholiste  School.  But  what  is  the 
Symboliste  School  ?  We  have  seen  what  the  Deca- 
dents were,  and  how  they  started.  What  changed 
them  into  Symbolistes  ? 

Let  me  quote  Gourmont  himself,  in  the  "Pref- 
ace" to  the  first  Livre  des  Masques:  "What  does 
Symbolisme  mean  ?  If  one  keeps  to  its  narrow  and 
etymological  sense,  almost  nothing ;  if  one  goes 
beyond  that,  it  means :  individualism  in  literature, 
liberty  of  art,  abandonment  of  existing  forms,  a 
tending  toward  what  is  new,  strange,  and  even 
bizarre ;  it  also  may  mean  idealism,  disdain  of  the 
social  anecdote,  anti-naturalism,  a  tendency  to  take 
only  the  characteristic  detail  out  of  life,  to  pay 
attention  only  to  the  act  by  which  a  man  distin- 
guishes himself  from  another  man,  and  to  desire  only 
to  realize  results,  essentials ;  finally,  for  poets, 
Symbolisme  seems  associated  with  vers  libre.'"  And 
farther  on  in  the  same  "Preface,"  contradicting 
Nordau,  who  believes  that  only  when  conforming  to 
existing  standards  is  art  sane,  Gourmont  says : 
"We  differ  violently  from  this  opinion.     The  capital 


120  Six  French  Poets 

crime  for  a  writer  is  conformity,  imitation,  the  sub- 
mission to  rules  and  teaching.  The  work  of  a  writer 
should  be,  not  merely  the  reflection,  but  the  enlarged 
reflection,  of  his  personality. 

"The  sole  excuse  which  a  man  can  have  for  writ- 
ing is  to  write  down  himself,  to  unveil  for  others 
the  sort  of  world  which  mirrors  itself  in  his  individual 
glass ;  his  only  excuse  is  to  be  original ;  he  should 
say  things  not  yet  said,  and  say  them  in  a  form  not 
yet  formulated.  He  should  create  his  own  aesthetics 
—  and  we  should  admit  as  many  aesthetics  as  there 
are  original  minds,  and  judge  them  for  what  they 
are  and  not  what  they  are  not.  Admit  then  that 
Symbolisme  is,  even  though  excessive,  even  though 
tempestuous,  even  though  pretentious,  the  expres- 
sion of  individualism  in  art."  As  the  organ  of  "the 
expression  of  individualism  in  art,"  the  Mercure  is 
as  up  to  date  to-day  as  it  was  the  year  it  was 
founded. 

Remy  de  Gourmont  is  one  of  the  foremost  Sym- 
bolistes  then,  from  every  point  of  view.  He  has  aided 
the  movement  and  flaunted  its  banner,  first  uncon- 
sciously, as  we  have  seen,  later  consciously.  Indi- 
vidualism, not  only  in  art,  but  in  everything  else, 
has  been  his  creed.  He  has  welcomed  young  men 
of  talent,  and  been  their  encourager  and  adviser. 
For  himself,  his  novels  are  all  "remans  de  la  vie 
cerebrale,"  they  are  pictures  of  the  intimate  life  of 
his  own  brain  and  personality.     He  is  an  intellec- 


Remy  de  Gourmont  121 

tual ;  and  his  novels,  and  tales,  and  poems,  are 
intellectual  tours  de  force.  Let  us  stop  for  a  moment 
and  consider  this  personality,  so  strangely  diverse, 
and  yet  so  unified. 

In  an  article  in  the  "Weekly  Critical  Review,"  M. 
Louis  Dumur  says  of  Remy  de  Gourmont:  "With 
him  there  is  nothing  which  tells  of  the  particularity 
of  a  province.  ...  He  is  neither  Southern,  nor 
Breton  ;  nor  is  he  Parisian.  He  is  a  Frenchman  of 
France,  and  even  of  old  France.  He  belongs  a  little, 
if  you  like,  to  the  North,  that  North  which  was  the 
cradle  of  the  Langue  d'Oil,  the  section  which  ex- 
perienced most  intimately  that  fusion  of  Roman, 
Celt,  and  Frank,  from  which  has  come  the  his- 
tory, the  language,  and  the  spirit,  of  this  country 
(France) . 

"One  must  be  lettered  to  fully  appreciate  M.  de 
Gourmont.  His  work  does  not  impress  itself  im- 
mediately upon  the  simple  and  ignorant  public. 
Nobody,  certainly,  is  more  modern  than  he ;  but 
his  modernity  presupposes  the  past.  .  .  .  He  is  of 
the  great  literary  line ;  he  takes  his  place  naturally 
there,  in  his  own  time  —  traditionalist,  because  his 
race  sparkles  in  him ;  innovator,  because  there  is  no 
pleasure  in,  nor  reason  for,  existing,  except  in  the 
evolution  of  ideas,  of  trend,  of  temperament.  If 
one  wished  to  draw  the  genealogical  tree  of  M.  de 
Gourmont,  it  would  not  be  an  absolutely  vain 
amusement.     To  my  mind,  there  would  be,  in  their 


122  Six  French  Poets 

legitimate  order  of  ascent,  Renan,  Balzac,  Stendhal, 
Chateaubriand,  \  oltaire,  Fenelon,  IMontaigne  ;  one 
could  even  put,  in  spite  of  his  probable  protestations, 
Boileau  and  X'augelas.  This  tree  would  plunge  its 
roots  on  all  sides  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  tap-root 
would  be  anchored  upon  scholasticism  and  theology  ; 
the  deep  soil  of  Latin  antiquity  would  bear  it ;  .  .  . 
the  light  foreign  infiltration  would  be  represented 
first  by  Italy,  and  next  by  the  Germany  of  Nietzsche  ; 
on  the  margin  one  could  add  the  title  to  debatable 
quarterings:  Villiers  de  ITsle  Adam,  Gerard  de 
Nerval,  Chamfort  .  .  .  and  perhaps  the  Marquis  de 
Sade." 

I  have  quoted  M.  Dumur  at  length  because  I 
thought  he  presented  the  many  sides  of  this  brilliant 
personality  better  than  I  could  do. 

Sixtine  was  followed,  in  1892,  by  Le  Latin  Mys- 
tique, with  a  preface  by  J.-K.  Huysmans.  This  book 
is  a  study  of  the  Latin  writers  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
who  greatly  attracted  Gourmont,  as  they  had 
Mallarme  and  Huysmans.  In  the  poem  which 
appeared  in  Sixtine,  and  which  I  did  not  quote  when 
we  were  considering  that  book,  the  influence  of  the 
Latin  mediaeval  writers  is  very  evident.  It  is  even 
written  in  one  of  their  favourite  forms  called  a  Se- 
quence. It  is  an  extraordinary-  thing  in  its  virtuosity. 
Notice  the  prevalence  of  the  ere  sound  so  beloved  by 
him,  and  the  alliterations : 


Remy  de  Gourmont  12;^ 

FIGURE   DE  RE\"E 

Sequence 

La  tr^  chere  anx  yeux  clairs  apparait  sous  la  liine, 

Sous  la  lune  ephem^re  et  mere  des  beaux  reves. 

La  lumiere  bleuie  par  les  brumes  cendrait 

D'lme  poussiere  aeriemie 

Son  front  fleiiri  d'etoiles,  et  sa  legere  chevelure 

Flottait  dans  Tair  derriere  ses  pas  legers : 

La  chimere  dormait  au  fond  de  ses  prunelles. 

Sur  la  chair  nue  et  frele  de  son  cou 

Les  stellaires  sourires  d'un  rosaire  de  perles 

Etageaient  les  reflets  de  leurs  pales  eclairs.     Ses  poignets 

Avaient  des  bracelets  tout  pareils  ;  et  sa  tete, 

La  couronne  incrustee  des  sept  pierres  mystiques 

Dont  les  fiammes  transpercent  le  cceur  comme  des  glaives, 

Sous  la  lune  ephemere  et  m^re  des  beaux  reves. 

Perhaps  it  was  his  stay  at  the  Bibliotheque 
Nationale,  perhaps  it  was  his  fondness  for  things 
beautiful  and  recherche  inherited  from  those  old 
engravers  and  printers  of  the  sixteenth  centur\%  at 
any  rate  Gourmont  pubhshed  many  of  his  early 
books  in  limited  editions  in  extremely  small  format, 
and  with  special  paper  and  type.  His  poems,  Fleiirs 
de  Jadis  and  Hieroglyphes,  came  out  in  that  way, 
and  also  some  of  his  prose  books.  Fkurs  de  Jadis 
is  called  an  edition  elzhnrienne,  and  the  forty-seven 
copies  on  Holland  paper  were  each  numbered  and 
signed  by  the  author.     Le  Chateau  Singidier,  a  prose 


124  Six  French  Poets 

tale,  is  "ornamented  with  thirty- two  vignettes  in 
red  and  blue;"  a  third,  VYmagier,  in  "grand 
quarto"  with  "nearly  three  hundred  engravings, 
reproductions  of  ancient  woodcuts  of  the  fifteenth 
and  sixteenth  centuries,  great  coloured  pictures, 
pages  of  old  books,  miniatures,  lithographs,  wood- 
cuts, drawings,  etc.  by  Whistler,  Gauguin,"  etc.,  etc., 
etc.  It  will  be  seen  that  Gourmont  was  something 
of  a  bibliographical  dandy.  And  it  is  a  sort  of 
literary  dandyism  which  principally  appears  in  these 
early  poems.  They  are  extremely  interesting,  but, 
it  must  be  admitted,  a  bit  precious.  At  the  same 
time  that  he  was  publishing  these  special  editions, 
in  the  early  nineties,  various  others  of  his  books 
were  being  issued  in  the  ordinary  way.  Among 
them,  the  strangest  and  most  successful  of  his  poems. 
Litanies  de  la  Rose. 

A  strange  thing  with  Latin  writers,  and  one  which 
we,  here  in  America,  can  never  quite  accustom  our- 
selves to,  is  the  great  hold  which  Catholicism  has 
on  them.  When  they  are  believers,  professing 
allegiance  to  the  Church,  we  can  understand  it. 
But  when  they  have  ceased  to  believe,  we  expect 
them  to  cease  to  think  of  the  Church  at  all.  On 
the  contrary',  all  the  French  sceptic  writers  I  have 
read  scream  their  scepticism  from  the  house  tops, 
and  "go  and  bang  it  against  the  front  door."  They 
delight  in  what  I  am  forced  to  consider  a  very 
childish  form  of  sacrilege.     For  Gourmont  to  call 


Remy  de  Gourmont  125 

his  poem  a  "litany"  evidently  gave  him  a  piquant 
thrill.  We  see  the  same  thing  in  the  half-shivering 
delight  which  Huysmans  takes  in  describing  the 
Black  Mass  in  Ld-Bas.  But  Huysmans  ended  by 
tumbling  back  into  the  arms  of  the  Church,  so  it  is 
evident  that  its  hold  upon  him  had  never  really  been 
lost.  With  Gourmont,  profound  believer  in  natural 
science  that  he  was  then,  and  that  he  has  gone  on 
being  in  a  constantly  increasing  ratio  ever  since, 
this  pleasure  in  being  audaciously  impertinent  to 
holy  things  is  a  little  hard  to  explain.  To  commit 
the  crime  of  lese-majesty  there  must  be  a  "Majesty" 
first.  To  profane  a  holy  thing,  you  must  first  admit 
it  to  be  holy ;  if  you  deny  the  holiness,  where  is  the 
sacrilege?  And  without  the  sacrilege,  where  is  the 
fun?  The  truth  seems  to  be  that,  to  most  French- 
men, Catholicism  is  more  of  a  superstition  than  a 
religion.  I  hardly  believe  religion,  as  we  conceive 
the  term,  to  be  possible  to  the  Latin  mind.  They 
throw  off  the  superstition  violently  and  flauntingly, 
but,  like  small  boys  and  their  proud  denial  of  the 
existence  of  the  bogey-man,  there  is  always  the 
underlying  fear  that  this  thing  you  do  not  believe  in 
may  put  out  a  huge  claw,  some  dark  night,  and 
scrape  you  in.  Gourmont  has  his  little  sacrilegious 
pleasures  quite  frequently,  notably  in  the  poem, 
Oraisons  Mauvaises,  and  in  various  of  the  stories. 

But  I  only  paused  here  to  note  a  curious  trait  in 
the  Latin  character,  and  one  which  is  often  mis- 


126  Six  French  Poets 

understood,  and  always  thoroughly  disliked,  by 
Anglo-Saxons.  It  appears  so  often  In  Gourmont 
and  others  of  the  Symbolistes,  particularly  the  prose 
writers,  that  It  seemed  necessary  to  take  cognizance 
of  It,  and  put  It  where  It  belonged. 

I  wish  I  could  quote  the  whole  of  Litanies  de  la 
Rose.  Here  the  author  has  given  roses  of  fifty-seven 
colours.  Nowhere  else  Is  his  wonderful  manipula- 
tion of  words  so  apparent,  and  his  gift  for  perceiv- 
ing and  describing  colours  so  displayed.  The  poem 
is  an  astounding  profusion  of  sounds,  of  pictures,  of 
colours,  of  smells.  It  Is  a  mixture  of  artifice  and 
spontaneity,  "of  Heaven  and  Hell,"  as  a  critic  has 
said.  Each  rose  is  supposed  to  be  a  woman,  and  the 
kind  of  women  can  best  be  shown  by  the  two  lines 
with  which  the  poem  begins : 

Fleur  hypocrite, 
Fleur  du  silence. 

That  Gourmont  has  not  much  opinion  of  women, 
this  poem  would  seem  to  prove.  But  that  need  not 
matter  to  us.  Some  poems  are  beautiful  because 
of  what  they  say,  some  because  of  the  way  they  say 
it.  Gourmont  describes  these  unpleasant  women, 
compounded  of  lies  and  deceits,  in  a  way  to  make 
one  weep  with  the  beauty  of  the  presentation. 
We  have : 

Rose  aux  yeux  noirs,  miroir  de  ton  neant,  rose  aux  yetix  noirs, 
fais-nous  croire  au  mystere,  fleur  hypocrite,  fleur  du  silence.    .   . 


Remy  de  Gourmont  127 

Rose  couleur  d'argent,  encensoir  de  nos  reves,  rose  couleur 
d'argent,  prends  notre  coeur  et  fais-en  de  la  fumee,  fleur  hypo- 
crite, fleur  du  silence.    .     . 

Rose  vineuse,  fleur  des  tonnelles  et  des  caves,  rose  vineuse, 
les  alcools  fous  gambadent  dans  ton  haleine :  souffle-nous 
I'horreur  de  I'amour,  fleur  hypocrite,  fleur  du  silence. 

We  have:  "Rose  en  papier  de  sole,"  "Rose 
couleur  de  I'aurore,  couleur  du  temps,  couleur  de 
Hen,"  "Rose  incarnate,"  "Rose  au  coeur  virginal," 
"Rose  couleur  du  soir,"  "Rose  bleue,  rose  iridine," 
"Rose  escarboucle,  rose  fleurie  au  front  noir  du 
dragon,"  and  this  whole  stanza  again : 

Rose  hyaline,  couleur  des  sources  claires  jaillies  d'entre  les 
herbes,  rose  hyaline,  Hylas  est  mort  d'avoir  aime  tes  yeux,  fleur 
hypocrite,  fleur  du  silence. 

The  poem  ends  with  this  stanza : 

Rose  papale,  rose  arrosee  des  mains  qui  benissent  le  monde, 
rose  papale,  ton  coeur  d'or  est  en  cuivre,  et  les  larmes  qui  perlent 
sur  ta  vaine  coroUe,  ce  sont  les  pleurs  du  Christ,  fleur  hypocrite, 
fleur  du  silence. 

Fleur  hypocrite, 

Fleur  du  silence. 

A  strange  ending  for  a  poem  which  sets  out  to  be 
audacious  and  sacrilegious.  An  odd  pitiful  tender- 
ness is  here,  and  an  irony  as  fine  and  sad  as  mist. 

Fleur s  de  Jadis  and  Le  Dit  des  Arbres,  are  the  two 
other  poems  in  this  pattern.  Again  they  are  women, 
but  the  bitter  jabbing  is  not  here.     Fleur s  de  Jadis 


128  Six  French  Poets 

is  built  round  this  beautiful,  melancholy  beginning : 
"Je  vous  prefere  aux  coeurs  les  plus  galants,  coeurs 
trepasses,  cceurs  de  jadis."  Here  again  Gourmont 
shows  his  erudition,  his  observation,  and  his  love 
for  nature.  His  flowers  are  beautiful,  believable : 
"Jonquilles,  dont  on  fit  les  cils  purs  de  tant  de 
blondes  filles;"  "Aconit,  fleur  casquee  de  poison, 
guerriere  a  plume  de  corbeau;"  "Campanules, 
amoureuses  clochettes  que  le  printemps  tintinna- 
bule"  (that  last  has  a  touch  of  Heine)  ;  "Belle-de- 
nuit  qui  frappas  a  ma  porte,  il  etait  minuit,  j'ai 
ouvert  ma  porte  a  la  Belle-de-nuit  et  ses  yeux 
fleurissaient  dans  I'ombre  ;  "  "  Lavande,  petite  seri- 
euse,  odeur  de  la  vertu,  .  .  .  chemise  a  la  douzaine 
dans  des  armoires  de  chene,  lavande  pas  bien  me- 
chante,  et  si  tendre;"  "Alysson,  dont  la  belle  ame 
s'en  va  toute  en  chansons."  Delicate,  lovely,  is  it 
not? 

It  is  the  same  with  the  trees:  "Bouleau,  frisson 
de  la  baigneuse  dans  I'ocean  des  herbes  folles,  pen- 
dant que  le  vent  se  joue  de  vos  pales  chevelures;" 
"Sorbier,  parasol  des  pendeloques,  grains  de  corail 
au  cou  dore  des  gitanes;"  "Meleze,  dame  aux 
tristes  pensees,  parabole  accoudee  sur  la  ruine  d'un 
mur,  les  araignees  d'argent  ont  tisse  leurs  toiles  a 
tes  oreilles  ;"  "  Maronnier,  dame  de  cour  en  paniers, 
dame  en  robe  brodee  de  trefles  et  de  panaches,  dame 
inutile  et  belle." 

Undoubtedly  these  three  are  Gourmont's  finest 


Remy  de  Gourmont  129 

poems.  They,  and  particularly  Litanies  de  la  Rose, 
are  the  ones  to  which  Gourmont's  admirers  chiefly 
refer.  I  am  an  admirer  of  Gourmont's  myself,  and 
I  prefer  these  poems  to  his  others.  They  contain 
more  of  his  original  and  peculiar  qualities.  But 
Gourmont  has  left  them  out  of  a  collection  of 
his  poems  called  Divertissements ,  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1 9 14.  He  has  underscored  this  volume 
Poemes  en  Vers,  w^hich  I  suppose  means  poems  in 
regular  metres.  This  is  what  he  says  about  it  in 
the  "Preface:"  "In  this  collection  there  are  very 
few  purely  verbal  poems,  those  dominated  by  the 
pleasure  of  managing  the  obliging  flock  of  words ; 
it  can  easily  be  understood  that  forcing  such 
obedience  has  discouraged  me  in  the  exact  measure 
that  I  assured  myself  of  their  excessive  docility. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  found  that  I  have  ended  by  con- 
ceiving the  poem  under  a  too  despoiled  form,  but 
that  was  perhaps  permitted  to  the  author  of  Litanies 
de  la  Rose,  which  poem  has  been  rejected  for  a  col- 
lection that  I  wished  representative  of  a  life  of 
sentiment  rather  than  a  life  of  art."  The  rest 
of  the  sentence  we  need  not  quote,  it  is  very  sad, 
and  shows  Gourmont  at  fifty-seven  considering 
himself  an  old  man,  and  rightly  so  I  fear,  with  wan- 
ing powers. 

What  does  that  mean  ?  That  vers  libre,  which  he 
himself  considers  as  one  of  the  most  indigenous 
qualities  of  the  Symboliste  poet,  as  we  saw  in  his 


130  Six  French  Poets 

Preface  to  the  Livre  des  Masques,  has  been  with 
him  not  a  conviction,  but  an  experiment?  Or  that 
this  extremely  French  Frenchman  finds  himself,  now 
that  his  energies  are  weakening,  atavistically  return- 
ing to  the  traditions  of  his  race  ?  We  can  only  say 
that  whatever  his  theories,  vers  litre  has  never  seemed 
an  irresistible  form  with  him. 

But  I  am  suffering  the  common  lot  of  biographers 
and  writers  about  Remy  de  Gourmont,  I  am  get- 
ting side-tracked  by  first  one  phase  of  his  genius 
and  then  another.  It  is  impossible  to  follow  him 
coherently.  His  life  has  been  a  congestion  of  intel- 
lectual activities. 

Let  us  come  back  to  1893,  or  thereabouts.  In 
1894,  appeared  Histoires  Magiques,  prose  stories,  and 
in  1894  also,  Hieroglyphes,  a  collection  of  poems.  In 
this  book  appears  the  Sequence  from  Sixtine  I  read 
you  a  little  while  ago,  and  this  poem,  Ascension : 

ASCENSION 

Un  soir,  dans  la  bruy^re  delaissee, 
Avec  I'amie  souriante  et  lassee  .  .  . 
,  O  soleil,  fleur  cueillie,  ton  lovird  corymbe 

Agonise  et  descend  tout  pale  vers  les  limbes. 
Ah !  si  j'etais  avec  I'amie  lassee, 
Un  soir,  dans  la  bruyere  delaissee ! 

Les  rainettes,  parmi  les  reines  des  pres 
Et  les  roseaux,  criaient  enamour^es. 


Remy  de  Gourmont  131 

Les  scarab  ees  grimpent  le  long  des  preles, 
Les  geais  bleus  font  flechir  les  branches  freles. 
On  entendait  les  cris  enamoures 
Des  rainettes,  parmi  les  reines  des  pres. 

Un  chien,  au  seuil  d'lme  porte  entr'ouverte, 
La-haut,  pleure  a  la  lune  naissante  et  verte 
Qui  rend  un  peu  de  joie  au  ciel  aveugle ; 
La  vache  qu'on  va  traire  s'agite  et  meugle, 
Un  chien  pleure  a  la  lune  naissante  et  verte, 
La-haut,  au  seuil  d'une  porte  entr'ouverte. 

Pendant  que  nous  montons,  I'ame  inquiete 
Et  souriante,  vers  la  coiu-be  du  faite, 
Le  Reve,  demeure  k  mi-chemin, 
S'assied  pensif,  la  tete  dans  sa  main, 
Et  nous  montons  vers  la  courbe  du  faite, 
Nous  montons  souriants,  I'ame  inquiete. 

The  following  years  saw  the  publication  of  a  num- 
ber of  books,  all  in  prose,  and  his  first  volume  of  con- 
temporary criticism,  Le  Livre  des  Masques.  That 
Gourmont  is  a  poet  in  his  prose,  this  description 
of  Maeterlinck's  plays  will  abundantly  prove : 

II  y  a  une  He  quelque  part  dans  les  brouillards,  et  dans  I'ile 
il  y  a  un  chateau,  et  dans  le  chateau  il  y  a  une  grande  salle  eclai- 
ree  d'une  petite  lampe,  et  dans  la  grande  salle  il  y  a  des  gens 
qui  attendent.  lis  attendent  quoi  ?  lis  ne  savent  pas.  lis  at- 
tendent  que  Ton  frappe  h.  la  porte,  ils  attendent  que  la  lampe 
s'eteigne,   ils   attendent  la   Peur,  ils   attendent   la   Mort.     Ils 


1^2  Six  French  Poets 

parlent ;  oui,  ils  disent  des  mots  qui  troublent  un  instant  le  si- 
lence, puis  ils  ecoutent  encore,  laissant  leurs  phrases  inachev^es  et 
leurs  gestes  interrompus.  Ils  ecoutent,  ils  attendent.  EUe  ne 
viendra  peut-etre  pas  ?  Oh  !  elle  viendra.  EUe  vient  toujours. 
II  est  tard,  elle  ne  viendra  peut-6tre  que  demain.  Et  les  gens 
assembles  dans  la  grande  salle  sous  la  petite  lampe  se  mettent  k 
sourire  et  ils  vont  esp^rer.  On  frappe.  Et  c'est  tout ;  c'est 
toute  une  vie,  c'est  toute  la  vie. 

More  novels  and  tales,  a  second  Livre  des  Masques, 
and  in  1899,  another  book  of  poems,  Les  Saintes 
du  Paradis.  Gourmont  has  succeeded  in  throwing 
off  the  superstition.  Les  Saintes  du  Paradis  might 
have  been  written  by  a  believer,  or  by  an  artist 
using  Catholicism  merely  as  decoration.  Gour- 
mont has  assured  us  that  with  him  this  latter 
is  the  case.  With  simplicity,  with  charm,  these 
saints  pass  before  us.  Here  are  nineteen  saints 
stepped  out  of  some  old  missal,  each  with  her  legend 
carefully  detailed,  and  each  painted  in  the  beautiful, 
bright  colours  so  dear  to  the  mediaeval  illuminator. 
In  the  following  "Dedication,"  they  file  past  us  in 
some  country  of  clear  pinks  and  greens,  painted  by 
Fra  Angelico. 

DEDICACE 

O  peregrines  qui  cheminez  songeuses, 
Songeant  peut-^tre  a  des  roses  lointaines, 
Pendant  que  la  poussiere  et  le  soleil  des  plaines 
Ont  briile  vos  bras  nus  et  votre  ^me  incertaine, 


Remy  de  Gourmont  133 

0  peregrines  qui  cheminez  songeuses, 
Songeant  peut-etre  a  des  roses  lointaines ! 

Voici  la  route  qui  m^ne  k  la  montagne, 

Voici  la  claire  fontaine  ou  fleurissent  les  baumes, 

Voici  le  bois  plein  d'ombre  et  d'anemones, 

Voici  les  pins,  voici  la  paix,  voici  les  domeg, 

Voici  la  route  qui  m^ne  ^  la  montagne, 

Voici  la  claire  fontaine  ou  fleurissent  les  baumes ! 

0  peregrines  qui  cheminez  songeuses, 

Suivez  la  voix  qui  vous  appelle  au  ciel : 

Les  arbres  ont  des  feuillages  aussi  doux  que  le  miel 

Et  les  femmes  au  coeur  pur  y  devierment  plus  belles. 

O  peregrines  qui  cheminez  songeuses, 

Suivez  la  voix  qui  vous  appelle  au  ciel. 

Here  are  the  poems  on  Saint  Agatha,  martyred 
for  her  chastity,  for  refusing  the  proposals  of  the 
Sicilian  Governor,  Quintarius ;  on  Saint  Collette, 
foundress  of  seventeen  convents  of  the  strict  obser- 
vance, and  terrible  sufferer  from  her  own  rigours ; 
on  Jeanne  d'Arc ;  and  on  Saint  Ursula,  the  English 
saint  and  teacher,  who  preferred  death  at  the  hands 
of  the  Hun  to  violation  : 

AGATHE 

Joyau  trouve  parmi  les  pierres  de  la  Sicile, 
Agathe,  vierge  vendue  aux  revendeuses  d'amour, 
Agathe,  victorieuse  des  colliers  et  des  bagues. 


134  '5'^x  French  Poets 

Des  sept  rubis  magiques  et  des  trois  pierres  de  lune, 

Agathe,  rejouie  par  le  feu  des  fers  rouges, 

Comme  un  amandier  par  les  douces  pluies  d'automne, 

Agathe,  embaumee  par  un  jeune  ange  vetu  de  pourpre, 

Agathe,  pierre  et  far,  Agathe,  or  et  argent, 

Agathe,  chevaUere  de  Malte, 

Sainte  Agathe,  mettez  du  feu  dans  notre  sang. 


COLETTE 

Douloureuse  beaut  e  cachee  dans  la  pri^re, 

Colette,  dure  a  son  coeux  et  plus  dure  a  sa  chair, 

Colette  prisonniere  dans  les  cloitres  amers 

Ovi  les  colliers  d 'amour  sont  des  chaines  de  fer, 

Colette  qui  pour  mourir  se  coucha  sur  la  terre, 

Colette  apres  sa  mort  restee  fraiche  comme  une  pierre, 

Sainte  Colette,  que  nos  coeurs  deviennent  durs  comme  des  pierres. 

JEANNE 

Bergere  nee  en  Lorraine, 

Jeanne  qui  avez  gard6  les  moutons  en  robe  de  futaine, 

Et  qui  avez  pleure  aux  miseres  du  peuple  de  France, 

Et  qui  avez  conduit  le  Roi  k  Reims  parmi  les  lances, 

Jeanne  qui  etiez  un  arc,  vme  croix,  un  glaive,  un  coevir,  une  lance, 

Jeanne  que  les  gens  aimaient  comme  leur  pere  et  leur  mere, 

Jeanne  blessee  et  prise,  mise  au  cachot  par  les  Anglais, 

Jeanne  brulee  a  Rouen  par  les  Anglais, 

Jeanne  qui  ressemblez  a  un  ange  en  colere, 

Jeanne  d'Arc,  mettez  beaucoup  de  colere  dans  nos  coeurs. 


Remy  de  Gourmont  135 

URSULE 

Griffon  du  nord,  b^te  sacree  venue 

Dans  la  lumiere  bleue  d'un  r^ve  boreal, 

Ursule,  flocon  de  neige  bu  par  les  levres  de  Jesus. 

Ursule,  etoile  rouge  vers  la  tulipe  de  pourpre, 

Ursule,  sceur  de  tant  de  coeurs  innocents, 

Et  dont  la  tete  sanglante  dort  comme  une  escarboucle 

Dans  la  bague  des  arceaux, 

Ursule,  nef,  voile,  rame  et  tempete, 

Ursule,  envolee  sur  le  dos  de  I'oiseau  blanc, 

Sainte  Ursule,  emportez  nos  ames  vers  les  neiges. 

In  1890,  appeared  the  first  of  Gourmont's  philo- 
logical works,  Esthetique  de  la  Langue  Fraiigaise, 
followed,  in  1900,  by  another,  La  Culture  des  Idees. 
Between  them  was  another  novel,  Le  Songe  d'une 
Femme,  and  in  1900,  the  last  of  his  poems  came  out. 
It  is  entitled,  Simone,  Poeme  Champetre.  There  is 
nothing  very  astounding  about  Simone,  but  there  is 
a  great  deal  that  is  very  delightful.  Gourmont 
is  doing  something  more  than  play  with  words. 
Here  he  makes  h's  words  subordinate  themselves  to 
feeling,  to  sentiment.  We  no  longer  have  the  arti- 
ficial and  learned  vers  libre  of  Litanies  de  la  Rose  and 
Fleurs  de  Jadis,  nor  the  long,  quiet,  uneven  lines  of 
Les  Saintes  du  Paradis  —  eleven,  thirteen,  some- 
times nineteen  syllables  in  length.  For  the  first 
time,  Gourmont  tries  more  tripping  metres,  metres 
of    a    sharp,    light    rhythm.     It    seems    as    though 


136  Six  French  Poets 

a  greater  interior  calm  had  left  him  room  for  simpler, 
gayer-hearted  joys. 

I  have  chosen  a  great  many  poems  from  Simone 
to  print.  They  almost  say  themselves,  and  as  you 
read  you  can  see  the  clouds  sailing  over  the  trees 
under  which  we  are  sitting,  and  hear  "  the  shepherd's 
clapping  shears,"  as  Leigh  Hunt  has  it.  Notice,  in 
Les  Cheveux,  how,  under  the  guise  of  a  love  poem, 
Gourmont  has  given  us  all  the  flora  of  his  coun- 
tryside, and  with  the  same  matter-of-fact,  and  yet 
somehow  bewitching,  statement,  which  is  a  pecul- 
iarity of  the  old  herbals : 


LES  CHEVEUX 

Simone,  il  y  a  un  grand  myst^re 
Dans  la  for^t  de  tes  cheveux. 

Tu  sens  le  foin,  tu  sens  la  pierre 

Ou  des  b^tes  se  sont  poshes ; 

Tu  sens  le  cuir,  tu  sens  le  ble, 

Quand  il  vient  d'etre  vanne  ; 

Tu  sens  le  bois,  tu  sens  le  pain 

Qu'on  apporte  le  matin  ; 

Tu  sens  les  fleurs  qui  ont  pousse 

Le  long  d'un  mur  abandonne  ; 

Tu  sens  la  ronce,  tu  sens  le  lierre 

Qui  a  ete  lave  par  la  pluie ; 

Tu  sens  le  jonc  et  la  fougere 

Qu'on  fauche  a  la  tombee  de  la  nuit ; 


Remy  de  Gourniont  137 

Tu  sens  le  hovix,  tu  sens  la  mousse, 

Tu  sens  I'herbe  mourante  et  rousse 

Qui  s'egrene  a  Tombre  des  haies ; 

Tu  sens  I'ortie  et  le  genet, 

Tu  sens  le  trefle,  tu  sens  le  lait ; 

Tu  sens  le  fenouil  et  I'anis ; 

Tu  sens  les  noix,  tu  sens  les  fruits 

Qm  sont  bien  mlirs  et  que  Ton  cueille ; 

Tu  sens  le  saule  et  le  tilleul 

Quand  ils  ont  des  fleurs  pleins  les  feuilles ; 

Tu  sens  le  miel,  tu  sens  la  vie 

Qui  se  promdne  dans  les  prairies  ; 

Tu  sens  la  terre  et  la  riviere ; 

Tu  sens  I'amour,  tu  sens  le  feu. 

Simone,  il  y  a  un  grand  myst^re 
Dans  la  for^t  de  tes  cheveux. 

It  is  the  same  in  this  next  poem,  only  here  the 
presence  of  Simone  has  become  more  a  part  of 
the  beauty.  In  spite  of  the  quite  usual  temper  of 
the  poem,  where  only  April,  first  throwing  down  the 
violets  and  then  thrusting  them  under  the  brambles,  is 
in  the  least  new,  it  has  a  feeling  of  complete  freshness  : 

LE  HOUX 

Simone,  le  soleil  rit  sur  les  feuilles  de  houx : 
Avril  est  revenu  pour  jouer  avec  nous. 

II  porte  des  corbeilles  de  fleurs  sur  ses  epaules, 

II  les  donne  aux  epines,  aux  marronniers,  aux  saules ; 


138  Six  French  Poets 

II  les  s^me  une  a  une  parmi  I'herbe  des  pr6s, 

Sur  le  bord  des  ruisseaux,  des  mares  et  des  fosses ; 

II  garde  les  jonquilles  pour  I'eau,  et  les  pervenches 
Pour  les  bois,  aux  endroits  ou  s'allongent  les  branches ; 

II  jette  les  violettes  k  I'ombre,  sous  les  ronces 

Ou  son  pied  nu,  sans  peur,  les  cache  et  les  enfonce ; 

A  toutes  les  prairies  il  donne  des  p&querettes 

Et  des  primevdres  qui  ont  un  collier  de  clochettes ; 

II  laisse  les  muguets  tomber  dans  les  for^ts 
Avec  les  anemones,  le  long  des  sentiers  frais ; 

II  plante  des  iris  sur  le  toit  des  maisons, 
Et  dans  notre  jardin,  Simone,  ou  il  fait  bon, 

II  repandra  des  ancolies  et  des  pensees, 
Des  jacinthes  et  la  boime  odeur  des  giroflees. 

Le  Brouillard  is  a  pure  lyric.  It  is  not  highly 
original  in  either  thought  or  expression.  But  its 
simplicity  is  so  sincere  that  its  lack  of  originality 
makes  really  no  difference.  Here  are  the  first  two 
verses : 

LE   BROUILLARD 

Simone,  mets  ton  manteau  et  tes  gros  sabots  noirs, 
Nous  irons  comme  en  barque  a  travers  le  brouillard. 


Remy  de  Gourmont  139 

Nous  irons  vers  les  iles  de  beaute  ou  les  femmes 

Sont  belles  comme  des  arbres  et  nues  comme  des  ames ; 

Nous  irons  vers  les  iles  oii  les  hommes  sont  doux 

Comme  des  lions,  avec  des  cheveux  longs  et  roux. 

Viens,  le  monde  incree  attend  de  notre  reve 

Ses  lois,  ses  joies,  les  dieux  qui  font  fleurir  la  seve 

Et  le  vent  qui  fait  luire  et  bruire  les  feuilles. 

Viens,  le  monde  innocent  va  sortir  d'vm  cercueil. 

Simone,  mets  ton  manteau  et  tes  gros  sabots  noirs, 
Nous  irons  comme  en  barque  a  travers  le  brouillard. 

Nous  irons  vers  les  iles  ou  il  y  a  des  montagnes 

D'ou  Ton  voit  I'etendue  paisible  des  campagnes, 

Avec  des  animaux  heureux  de  brouter  I'herbe, 

Des  bergers  qui  ressemblent  k  des  saules,  et  des  gerbes 

Qu'on  monte  avec  des  fourches  sur  le  dos  des  charrettes : 

II  fait  encore  soleil  et  les  moutons  s'arretent 

Pres  de  I'etable,  devant  la  porte  du  jardin, 

Qui  sent  la  pimprenelle,  I'estragon  et  le  thym. 

Simone,  mets  ton  manteau  et  tes  gros  sabots  noirs, 
Nous  irons  comme  en  barque  k  travers  le  brouillard. 

Much  more  unusual,  much  more  important,  is  Les 
Feuilles  Mortes,  with  its  wistful  refrain.  How 
beautiful  is  the  line  of  the  dead  leaves  which  "font 
un  bruit  d'ailes  ou  de  robes  de  femme!" 


140  Six  French  Poets 

LES  FEUILLES  MORTES 

Simone,  allons  au  bois  :  les  feuilles  sont  tombees ; 
EUes  recouvrent  la  mousse,  les  pierres  et  les  sentiers. 

Simone,  aimes-tu  le  bruit  des  pas  sur  les  feuilles  mortes  ? 

Elles  ont  des  couleurs  si  douces,  des  tons  si  graves, 
EUes  sont  sur  la  terre  de  si  fr^les  epaves ! 

Simone,  aimes-tu  le  bruit  des  pas  sur  les  feuilles  mortes? 

Elles  on  I'air  si  dolent  a  I'heure  du  cr^puscule, 

Elles  orient  si  tendrement,  quand  le  vent  les  bouscule  ! 

Simone,  aimes-tu  le  bruit  des  pas  sur  les  feuilles  mortes  ? 

Quand  le  pied  les  ecrase,  elles  pleurent  comme  des  ames, 
Elles  font  un  bruit  d'ailes  ou  de  robes  de  femme. 

Simone,  aimes-tu  le  bruit  des  pas  sur  les  feuilles  mortes  ? 

Viens :  nous  serons  un  jour  de  pauvres  feuilles  mortes. 
Viens  :  deja  la  nuit  tombe  et  le  vent  nous  emporte. 

Simone,  aimes-tu  le  bruit  des  pas  sur  les  feuilles  mortes  ? 

Truly,  in  reading  these  poems,  we  go  from  one 
pleasant  country  scene  to  another,  and  step  from 
season  to  season  of  the  bucolic  year.  Not  the  least 
interesting  part  of  them  is  the  new  side  they  show 


Remy  de  Goiirmont  141 

us  of  Gourmont's  complex  character.  Here  is  the 
river,  which  sings  "un  air  ingenu."  One  can  almost 
hear  its  clear  rippling  over  a  pebble  bottom,  so  flow- 
ing is  the  movement  of  the  poem  ;  and  what  a 
youthful,  happy  line  he  has  given  us  in  "Et  moi,  je 
verrai  dans  I'eau  claire  ton  pied  nu." 

LA  RIVIERE 

Simone,  la  riviere  chante  un  air  ingenu, 
Viens,  nous  irons  parmi  les  joncs  et  la  cigue ; 
II  est  midi :  les  hommes  ont  quitte  leur  charrue, 
Et  moi,  je  verrai  dans  I'eau  claire  ton  pied  nu. 

La  riviere  est  la  m^re  des  poissons  et  des  fleurs, 
Des  arbres,  des  oiseaux,  des  parfums,  des  couleurs ; 

EUe  abreuve  les  oiseaux  qui  ont  mange  leur  grain 
Et  qui  vont  s'envoler  pour  un  pays  lointain ; 

EUe  abreuve  les  mouches  bleues  dont  le  ventre  est  vert 
Et  les  araignees  d'eau  qui  rament  comme  aux  galeres. 

La  riviere  est  la  mere  des  poissons  :  elle  leur  donne 
Des  vermisseaux,  de  I'herbe,  de  I'air  et  de  I'ozone ; 

Elle  leur  donne  I'amour ;  elle  leur  donne  les  ailes 
Pour  suivre  au  bout  du  monde  I'ombre  de  leur  femelles. 

La  riviere  est  la  mere  des  fleurs,  des  arcs-en-ciel, 
De  tout  ce  qui  est  fait  d'eau  et  d'un  peu  de  soleil : 


1^2  Six  French  Poets 


Eile  nourrit  le  sainfoin  et  le  foin,  et  les  reines 
Des  pres  qui  ont  I'odeur  du  miel,  et  les  molenes 

Qui  ont  des  feuilles  douces  comme  un  duvet  d'oiseaux ; 
EUe  nourrit  le  ble,  le  trefle  et  les  roseaux ; 

EUe  nourrit  le  chanvre  ;  elle  nourrit  le  lin ; 
EUe  nourrit  I'avoine,  I'orge  et  le  sarrasin ; 

Elle  nourrit  le  seigle,  I'osier  et  les  pommiers ; 
Elle  nourrit  les  saules  et  les  grands  peupliers. 

La  riviere  est  la  mere  des  f  orets  :  les  beaux  chenes 
Ont  puise  dans  son  lit  I'eau  pure  de  leurs  veines. 

La  riviere  f  econde  le  ciel :  quand  la  pluie  tombe, 
C'est  la  rividre  qui  monte  au  ciel  et  qui  retombe ; 

La  riviere  est  une  mere  trSs  puissante  et  tres  pure, 
La  riviere  est  la  mere  de  toute  la  nature. 

Simone,  la  riviere  chante  un  air  ingenu, 
Viens,  nous  irons  parmi  les  joncs  et  la  cigue, 
II  est  midi :  les  hommes  ont  quitte  leur  charrue, 
Et  moi,  je  verrai  dans  I'eau  claire  ton  pied  nu. 

But  of  all  of  these  poems,  I  prefer  Le  Verger.  The 
metre  is  irresistible,  and  lilts  along  like  a  gay  tune. 
One  can  hardly  resist  the  pleasure  of  reading  it 
aloud,  and  then  —  reading  it  again.     The  tune  gets 


Remy  de  Gourmont  143 

into  one's  head,  and  one  goes  about  for  half  a  day, 

murmuring : 

Allons  au  verger,  Simone, 

Allons  au  verger. 

Yes,    Remy   de    Gourmont   is   a   many-sided    man 
indeed  ! 

LE   ^'ERGER 

Simone,  allons  au  verger 
Avec  un  panier  d'osier. 
Nous  dirons  a  nos  pommiers. 
En  entrant  dans  le  verger : 
Voici  la  saison  des  pommes, 
Allons  au  verger,  Simone, 
Allons  au  verger. 

Les  pommiers  sont  pleins  de  gu^pes, 
Car  les  pommes  sont  tres  m<lres : 
II  se  fait  un  grand  murmure 
Autour  du  vieux  doux-aux-v^pes. 
Les  pommiers  sont  pleins  de  pommes, 
Allons  au  verger,  Simone, 
Allons  au  verger. 

Nous  cueillerons  la  calville, 
Le  pigeonnet  et  la  reinette, 
Et  aussi  des  pommes  k  cidre 
Dont  la  chair  est  un  peu  doucette. 
Voici  la  saison  des  pommes, 
Allons  au  verger,  Simone, 
Allons  au  verger. 


144  -^^^  French  Poets 

Tu  auras  I'odeur  des  pommes 

Sur  ta  robe  et  sur  tes  mains, 

Et  tes  cheveux  seront  pleins 

Du  parfum  doiix  de  rautomne. 

Les  pommiers  sont  pleins  de  pommes, 

Aliens  au  verger,  Simone, 

Aliens  au  verger. 

Simone,  tu  seras  mon  verger 

Et  mon  pommier  de  doux-aux-v^pes ; 

Simone,  ecarte  les  guepes 

De  ton  coeur  et  de  mon  verger. 

Voici  la  saison  des  pommes, 

AUons  au  verger,  Simone, 

Aliens  au  verger. 

Following  Simone  in  Divertissements,  is  a  group  of 
poems  called  Paysages  Spirituels.  The  one  I  am 
going  to  quote  bears  the  date  1898,  and  although  it 
therefore  precedes  the  publication  of  Simone,  it  does 
not  really  precede  it,  for  Simone  was  written  in  1892. 

CHANSON   DE  L'AUTOMNE 

Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  I'autemne, 
L'automne  humide  et  monotone, 
Mais  les  feuilles  des  cerisiers 
Et  les  fruits  murs  des  eglantiers 
Sont  rouges  comme  des  baisers, 
Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  l'automne. 


Remy  de  Gourmont  145 

Viens,  mon  amie,  le  rude  automne 

Serre  son  manteau  et  frissonne 

Mais  le  soleil  a  des  douceurs ; 

Dans  I'air  leger  comme  ton  coeur, 

La  brume  berce  sa  langueur, 

Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  Tautomne. 

Viens,  mon  amie,  le  vent  d'automne 
Sanglote  comme  une  personne. 
Et  dans  les  buissons  entr'ouverts 
La  ronce  tord  ses  bras  pervers, 
Mais  les  chines  sont  tou jours  verts, 
Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  I'automne. 

Viens,  mon  amie,  le  vent  d'automne 
Durement  gronde  et  nous  sermonne, 
Des  mots  sifflent  par  les  sentiers, 
Mais  on  entend  dans  les  halliers 
Le  doux  bruit  d'ailes  des  ramiers, 
Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  I'automne. 

Viens,  mon  amie,  le  triste  automne 
Aux  bras  de  I'hiver  s'abandonne, 
Mais  I'herbe  de  I'et^  repousse, 
•  La  derniere  bruyere  est  douce, 
Et  on  croit  voir  fleurir  la  mousse, 
Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  I'automne. 

Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  I'automne, 
Tout  nus  les  peupliers  frissorment, 

L 


146  Six  Fre?ich  Poets 

Mais  leur  feuillage  n'est  pas  mort ; 
Gonflant  sa  robe  coulcur  d'or, 
II  danse,  il  danse,  il  danse  encor, 
Viens,  mon  amie,  viens,  c'est  I'automne. 

Almost  a  return  to  the  old  ballad  form,  you  see. 
So  he  works  out  his  destiny,  at  once  modern  and 
rooted  to  the  past. 

After  Simone  came  more  philology.  Le  Chemin 
de  Velours,  and  Le  Probleme  du  Style.  Then  his  one 
scientific  essay,  Physique  de  V Amour,  in  which  if 
there  were  space  I  could  show  that  he  is  always  a 
poet,  as  well  in  science  as  in  criticism.  Then  follow 
the  four  volumes  of  literary  essays.  Promenades 
Litteraires,  and  the  three  volumes  of  Promenades 
Philosophiques.  Four  volumes  of  Epilogues,  which 
are  reflections  on  current  topics,  and  two  more  novels, 
Une  Nuit  au  Luxembourg  and  Un  Cceur  Virginal. 

What  can  one  say  of  such  a  man  ?  How  classify 
him?  How  measure  the  extent  of  his  accomplish- 
ment, of  his  influence?  In  one  short  chapter  it  is 
impossible.  I  have  only  considered  him  as  a  poet. 
And  in  spite  of  his  tales,  his  novels,  his  plays,  his 
criticisms,  and  his  essays,  I  believe  him  to  be  first 
of  all  a  poet.  He  has  said  somewhere,  "I  write  to 
clarify  my  ideas."  The  artist  has  been  crowded 
out  by  the  thinker,  the  seeker  after  truth.  Has 
that  been  a  misfortune?     Who  knows. 


JwmLM^t(^^ 


•If 


HENRI   DE   REGNIER 


HENRI    DE   REGNIER 

Henri  de  Regnier  Is  universally  considered  the 
greatest  of  the  Symholiste  poets.  And  if  we  exclude 
Emile  Verhaeren  from  the  list,  as  having  stepped 
beyond  the  school  and  into  a  newer  age,  and  exclude 
Jammes  and  Fort,  as  belonging  to  a  younger  genera- 
tion, there  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Who  are  the  other 
Symbolistes,  strictly  speaking?  Verlaine  and  Mal- 
larme  were  the  starters,  the  masters  ;  but  who  were 
the  men  who  looked  up  to  them,  and  followed  them, 
and  became  the  Symholiste  School,  so-called  ?  They 
are  Viele-Griffin,  Stuart  Merrill  (both,  amusingly 
enough,  Americans),  Gustave  Kahn,  Albert  Samain, 
Remy  de  Gourmont,  Jean  Moreas,  Saint-Pol-Roux, 
etc.,  etc.  Clearly,  Henri  de  Regnier  is  far  above 
them  all.  But  he  is  even  more  than  that,  he  is 
one  of  the  great  poets  of  France ;  no  greater  than 
his  master,  Mallarme,  be  it  granted,  but  as  great. 
Only,  and  here  comes  in  the  strangest  thing  about 
him,  he  is  an  even  greater  novelist.  Such  a  novelist 
as  there  can  be  only  a  dozen  or  so  in  any  nation's 
history.     Hugo,   Stendhal,    Balzac,   Flaubert,   Zola, 

149 


150  Six  French  Poets 

Anatole  France,  is  he  inferior  to  any  of  these  ?  Per- 
haps we  are  too  near  him  to  be  able  to  tell  definitely, 
but  the  general  opinion  of  critics  would  seem  to  be 
that  he  is  their  equal. 

Yet,  so  far  as  I  know,  none  of  his  books  have  been 
translated  into  English.  Is  this  because  of  a  cer- 
tain Rabelaisian  gusto  in  some  of  them,  and  a 
thoroughly  Gallic  quality  in  all  ?  Perhaps.  The 
educated  public  can  read  them  in  French ;  the  un- 
educated public,  possibly,  would  not  understand 
them  in  any  language.  But  the  "Gallicisms"  are 
no  more  in  number,  and  hardly  more  audacious, 
than  those  of  Anatole  France.  Still,  Anatole  France 
is  known  to  everybody,  while  Regnier's  name  is 
only  vaguely  familiar.  Yet  this  man  is  one  of  the 
Immortals,  having  been  elected  to  the  Academy 
in  191 1,  and  is  an  acknowledged  master  of  French 
prose,  receiving  the  mantle  slowly  dropping  from 
the  shoulders  of  Anatole  France  ! 

Henri  de  Regnier  is  still  a  comparatively  young 
man ;  although  perhaps  I  should  qualify  that,  as 
poetry  seems  to  be,  for  some  strange  reason,  a  young 
man's  job,  and  say  that  he  is  only  on  the  edge  of 
middle  age,  having  just  passed  his  fifty-first  birth- 
day. For  Henri-Frangois-Joseph  de  Regnier  was 
born  at  Honfleur  on  the  twenty-eighth  of  December, 
1864. 

The  R6gniers  are  an  old  aristocratic  family, 
and  Henri  de  Regnier  is  the  product  of  a  race,  if 


Henri  de  Regnier  151 

ever  a  man  was.  The  lives  and  exploits  of  his 
ancestors  seem  like  a  page  out  of  one  of  his  own 
seventeenth  century  novels.  And  the  polish  and 
reserve  which  characterize  all  his  books  have  as 
certainly  descended  to  him,  as  has  his  cold  and 
somewhat  haughty  expression,  and  his  exceedingly 
delicate  features.  In  1585,  a  certain  Crespin  de 
Regnier  was  a  Seigneur  of  Vigneux  in  Thierache, 
and  as  captain  of  a  company  of  fifty  men-at-arms, 
he  served  under  the  Due  de  Bouillon  and  Marshal 
de  Balagny  in  the  wars  of  the  Ligue.  In  1589,  this 
gentleman  married  Yolaine  de  Fay  d'Athies,  a 
daughter  of  Charles  de  Fay  d'Athies,  one  of  the 
Hundred  Gentlemen  of  the  King's  Household.  The 
grandson  of  Crespin,  Charles  de  Regnier,  also  had 
the  title,  and  seems  beside  to  have  been  an  equerry 
at  the  Court.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  Frangois 
de  Regnier  was  a  Lieutenant-Colonel  in  the  Regi- 
ment of  Touraine,  and  Brigadier  in  the  King's  army, 
and  a  Chevalier  of  Saint  Louis.  {Le  Bon  Plaisir, 
one  of  Henri  de  Regnier's  novels,  which  deals  with 
this  period,  is  dedicated  to  him.)  In  the  eighteenth 
century  also,  there  is  a  Gabriel-Frangois  de  Regnier, 
who  was  Brigadier  of  Light  Horse  in  the  King's 
Guard  ;  and  his  son,  Francois  de  Regnier,  who  was 
Captain  in  the  Regiment  of  Royal  Dragoons.  Both 
these  men  were  Chevaliers  of  Saint  Louis.  When 
the  Revolution  came,  Francois  de  Regnier  emigrated 
and  served  in  the  Army  of  the  Princes.     His  son 


152  Six  French  Poets 

(the  grandfather  of  the  poet)  returned  to  France 
in  1820,  and  was  made  a  ChevaHer  of  the  Legion 
of  Honour.  The  poet's  father,  Henri-Charles  de 
Regnier,  held  various  posts  under  the  government, 
among  others  Inspector  of  Customs  at  Honfieur,  and 
Receiver  at  Paris ;  and  (and  this  is  an  odd  thing) 
he  was  the  boyhood  companion  of  Gustave  Flaubert. 

On  his  mother's  side,  Henri  de  Regnier's  lineage 
is  no  less  distinguished,  his  mother  being  descended 
from  a  certain  Yves  de  Bard,  who  lived  in  the  six- 
teenth century.  The  great-grandson  of  this  Yves 
de  Bard  married,  in  1662,  Marie  de  Saumaise  de 
Chassans,  who  was  the  great-grandniece  of  a  cele- 
brated savant,  Claude  de  Saumaise,  and  of  Charlotte 
de  Saumaise,  who  became  Comtesse  de  Bregy,  and 
was  lady-in-waiting  to  Anne  of  Austria.  This  lady, 
although  only  a  many-times-grandaunt  of  Henri  de 
Regnier,  seems  to  have  counted  for  something  in  his 
inheritance,  as  she  wrote  "Letters"  and  "Poems," 
and  was  a  precieuse  of  distinction.  The  De  Bard 
family  continued,  throughout  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  accruing  to  themselves  lands 
and  surnames,  and  the  great-great-grandfather  of 
the  poet,  Benigne  du  Bard  de  Chassans,  was  a 
Counsellor  of  the  Parliament  of  Dijon. 

I  have  dwelt  so  long  upon  these  fatiguing  genea- 
logical details,  because  no  one  can  really  under- 
stand Henri  de  Regnier  out  of  his  frame  —  that 
frame  of  noble,   honourable,  virile,  cultivated  sol- 


Henri  de  Regnier  153 

diers,  courtiers,  and  gentlemen,  which  surrounds 
him  on  all  sides,  and  which  he,  himself,  seems  to  be 
so  atavistically  conscious  of.  One  of  his  novels, 
Le  Passe  Vivant,  deals  with  the  strong,  almost 
terrible,  impulsion  of  the  past.  And  objective  as  all 
Henri  de  Regnier's  work  is,  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  in  Le  Passe  Vivant  we  have  an  acknowledgment 
of  a  condition  of  which  he  is  perfectly  conscious  in 
himself,  although,  of  course,  in  a  lesser  degree  than 
he  has  portrayed  it  in  his  characters.  But  it  is  not 
only  in  Le  Passe  Vivant  that  we  feel  the  importunate- 
ness  of  the  Past ;  it  vibrates  like  a  mufifled  organ- 
point  through  all  his  work. 

Yet  I  must  be  careful  not  to  give  the  impres- 
sion that  Regnier  is  merely  the  result  and  echo  of 
dead  generations.  So  many  people  are  that ;  and 
here,  in  America,  in  spite  of  the  generations  being 
still  so  few,  we  see  it  eating  through  the  present 
like  a  disease.  This  old  French,  decadent  aristoc- 
racy, as  we  are  wont  to  consider  it,  seems  to  main- 
tain itself  with  extraordinary  ease  and  success. 
After  four  hundred  years,  not  of  steady  rising,  but 
(much  more  difficult  problem)  continued  arisen, 
this  family  has  produced  one  of  the  greatest  poets 
and  novelists  which  its  country  has  known.  Seven 
volumes  of  poetry,  fifteen  volumes  of  novels  and 
stories  (and  all,  mind  you,  works  of  the  very  first 
rank),  one  play,  and  three  volumes  of  essays,  is  his 
tally  up  to  date.     And  the  man  is  only  fifty-one ! 


154  ^'^^  French  Poets 

Why  !  No  stevedore  could  work  so  hard !  It  is 
colossal.  And  this  man  is  a  scion  of  an  old  aristo- 
cratic family ! 

Until  he  was  seven  years  old,  Henri  de  Regnier 
lived  at  Honfleur.  In  one  of  his  stories,  Le  Trefle 
Blanc,  he  has  given  some  of  his  early  recollections. 
"This  time  of  my  Hfe,"  he  says,  "has  remained 
singularly  present  to  my  memory,  and  I  feel  it  still 
in  a  quite  particular  way.  It  is  as  though  it  were 
in  suspense  within  me,  and  forms  an  indissoluble 
whole."  He  remembers  the  minutest  details.  For 
instance,  he  went  with  his  mother  to  stay  with  his 
grandfather  who  was  dying.  Being  left  much  to 
himself,  he  wandered  about  and  initiated  himself 
into  all  the  mysteries  of  the  old  house.  He  tells  of 
"the  walls  scaling;"  of  "the  bulging  of  the  canvas 
of  an  old  portrait,  the  cracks  in  the  console,  a  sliver 
of  the  parquet  floor  which  gave  under  the  foot, 
all  the  imperceptible  nothings  which  I  have  never 
forgotten,  all  the  noises  of  life  and  silence  to  which 
I  was  attentive." 

In  187 1,  Henri-Charles  de  Regnier,  the  poet's 
father,  was  appointed  Receiver  at  Paris.  And  the 
family  moved  there.  Three  years  later,  in  1874, 
Henri  entered  the  College  Stanislas,  and  he  seems 
to  have  written  his  first  poem  in  1879.  Fifteen 
years  old  is  not  young  to  attempt  writing,  and  we 
may  feel  at  ease  in  the  knowledge  that  Regnier 
was  not  an  infant  phenomenon.     There  is  a  tale 


Henri  de  Regnier  155 

that  one  of  his  professors,  catching  him  writing  a 
poem,  at  once  confiscated  it.     Schoolmasters  would 
seem  to  be  the  same  brilliant,  sympathetic  lot  all 
over  the  world.     But,  thank  Heaven,  our  minds  do 
get    fed    somehow,    in    spite    of    the    schools.      In 
Regnier's  case,  there  were  the  quais,  with  their  rows 
of  green   boxes  full   of  books  —  delightful,   hetero- . 
geneous  masses  of  books,   classified  only  by   their 
state   of  dilapidation.     Trees   blowing,    blue   river, 
spots    of   bright   sunshine,    and    books !     Going    to 
school  and  coming  back,   Regnier  read   them,  any 
of  them  that  happened.     There  was  a  reading-room 
in  the  rue  de  Sevres  where  he  went  also,  and  again 
read    everything:     Hugo,    Musset,    Flaubert,    the 
tragedies  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  Voltaire's 
plays.     He  says  now  that  in  those  days  he  liked 
bad  poetry  better  than  good,  and  perhaps  he  did. 
But  all  nourished  him,  and  helped  him  over  that 
most  dangerous  period  for  a  possible  writer  —  his 
school-days. 

He  graduated  in  1883,  and  to  please  his  family 
studied  law,  and  passed  an  examination  for  the 
Diplomatic  Service.  But  that  was  the  end  of  all 
thought  of,  or  endeavour  about,  any  career  other 
than  letters.  During  this  time  he  had  been  writing, 
and  his  first  verses  appeared  in  a  little  review, 
Lutece,  under  the  pen-name  of  Hugues  Vignix,  so 
turning  his  admiration  for  Victor  Hugo  and  Alfred 
de  Vigny  into  a  sort  of  monogram. 


156  Six  French  Poets 

Another  young  man  made  his  Hterary  debut  in 
Lutece  with  Henri  de  Regnier.  This  was  Francis 
Viele-Griffin.  There  was  a  fencing  gallery  next 
door  to  the  office  of  Lutece,  where  the  young  con- 
tributors used  to  disport  themselves.  An  amusing 
joke  of  the  period  had  it  that  they  learnt  to  fight 
in  order  to  kill  their  predecessors.  For,  as  we  saw 
in  the  last  essay,  these  young  writers  were  firmly 
against  the  established  order,  and  the  established 
order  took  it  out  by  not  acknowledging  their 
existence. 

Regnier,  like  Samain,  had  a  desire  to  meet  great 
men,  to  wear  himself  smooth  by  contact  with  mature 
minds.  Timidly,  but  firmly,  he  hazarded  a  call 
upon  Sully-Prudhomme.  He  was  courteously  re- 
ceived, and  continued  in  pleasant  relations  with 
the  elder  poet  until  Regnier's  adherence  to  vers 
libre  separated  them. 

It  was  a  very  quiet,  retired  life  that  Regnier  led 
at  this  time.  Reading,  studying,  learning  how. 
He  was  thoroughly  serious  in  his  work,  in  his  art. 
He  read  much  Victor  Hugo,  a  master  soon  to  be 
deserted  by  his  generation.  He  also  read  Baude- 
laire, Vigny,  Mallarme,  and  the  sonnets  of  Jose- 
Maria  de  Heredia,  not  yet  published,  but  appearing 
from  time  to  time  in  journals  and  reviews.  Another 
side  of  his  character  drew  him  to  memoirs,  novels, 
books  which  depicted  and  analyzed  life.  He  has 
explained  himself  as  he  was  then,  by  saying,  "  I  was 


Henri  de  Regnier  157 

in  some  sort  double,  Symboliste  and  Realiste,  loving 
symbols  and  anecdotes  at  the  same  time,  a  poem 
of  Mallarme's  or  an  idea  of  Chamfort's."  De 
Regnier  has  remained  Symboliste  and  Realiste,  neither 
side  of  his  character  has  entirely  dominated  the 
other,  but  time  has  strengthened  the  realism  until 
it  makes  a  strong  and  correct  base  on  which  the 
light  form  of  Symbolisme  can  safely  stand. 

In  spite  of  his  realistic  leanings,  Henri  de  Regnier 
was  principally  Symboliste  and  poet,  in  these  youth- 
ful days.  If  he  did  not  begin  writing  extraordinarily 
young,  he  certainly  began  publishing  in  the  very 
green  leaf.  He  left  college  as  we  have  seen,  in  1883, 
at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and  his  first  book,  Les  Lende- 
mains,  was  published  in  1885,  when  he  was  twenty- 
one,  and  in  1886,  a  second  collection  of  poems, 
Apaisement,  came  out. 

There  is  nothing  very  remarkable  in  these  early 
poems ;  they  show  good  masters,  careful  study,  and 
a  pleasant  imagination.  Considering  the  extreme 
youth  of  their  author,  they  gave  excellent  promise. 
The  theory  that  a  man  should  serve  his  apprentice- 
ship in  silence,  and  not  give  his  early  work  to  the 
public,  is  a  disputable  one.  The  Paris  of  Regnier's 
youth  was  full  of  young  men  of  remarkable  talent ; 
it  was  full  of  little  reviews  publishing  the  work 
of  these  young  men.  If  their  circulation  was 
small,  at  least  it  was  select.  It  consisted  of  all  the 
other  revolutionary  poets,  young  and  old.     Printing, 


158  Six  French  Poets 

publishing,  a  young  man  made  friends  and  opened 
doors.  Had  Regnier  kept  his  early  work  shut  up 
between  the  covers  of  his  portfolio,  he  might  have 
leapt  from  his  obscurity  a  few  years  later  armed 
cap-d-pie  like  Minerva  from  the  head  of  Jove,  but 
his  future  would  have  been  harder  to  make.  Co- 
teries would  have  been  formed  without  him,  places 
he  might  have  had  would  have  been  given  to  others, 
bands  of  early  friendships  would  have  kept  him 
outside  as  a  late  comer.  No,  we  must  admit  that 
Regnier  did  well  to  publish  these  two  little  vol- 
umes and  the  two  which  succeeded  them  :  Sites, 
in  1887,  and  Episodes,  in  1888.  But  why  his 
publishers  keep  them  in  print  is  more  difficult 
of  comprehension.  Yet  these  poems  suggest  the 
Regnier  of  later  years.     Take  this,  for  instance : 

J'ai  reve  que  ces  vers  seraient  comme  des  fleurs 
Que  fait  tourner  la  main  des  maitres  ciseleurs 
Autour  des  vases  d'or  aux  savantes  ampleurs. 

It  was  not  a  bad  prophecy.  His  poems  are  like  the 
flowers  of  master  carvers.  And  the  words,  "gold 
vases,"  are  almost  the  keynote  of  his  work.  Remy 
de  Gourmont,  in  the  first  Livre  des  Masques,  men- 
tions his  fondness  for  the  words  or  and  mart.  And 
whether  we  take  vases  d'or  as  sound  or  as  sense,  it 
might  almost  stand  as  a  device  in  front  of  any 
volume  of  his  poems. 

The  point  of  view  of  his  group,  and  his  particular 


Henri  de  Regnier  159 

place  in  it,  has  been  excellently  rendered  by  M.  Jean 
de  Gourmont,  one  of  De  Regnier's  biographers. 
Speaking  of  the  Symboliste  group,  he  says,  "all  the 
poets  of  this  group,  shut  up  within  their  particular 
symbols,  described  .  .  .  the  interior  of  their  prison. 
M.  de  Regnier's  prison  is  a  palace  with  onyx  columns  ; 
he  walks  up  and  down  the  length  of  galleries  wain- 
scoted with  gold.  Large  windows  open  upon  nature 
and  life ;   he  leans  out  and  looks  at  the  spectacle," 

That  palace  with  onyx  columns  we  shall  see  again, 
and  again,  and  again.  It  is  one  of  the  truest  things 
ever  said  about  Henri  de  Regnier. 

At  this  time,  Stephane  Mallarme  was  becoming 
every  moment  more  certainly  the  acknowledged 
master  of  these  younger  writers,  soon  to  be  known 
as  Symbolistes.  He  held  a  sort  of  salon  on  Tuesdays, 
and  received  his  disciples  and  admirers.  He  sat  in 
a/' rocking-chair,"  under  his  own  portrait  by  Manet, 
and  talked.  (I  believe  a  rocking-chair  to  be  a  purely 
American  invention,  and  it  must  be  a  matter  of 
national  pride  for  us  to  feel  that  we  have  not  only 
given  the  French  poets  Poe  and  Walt  Whitman, 
whom  they  understood  and  admired  before  we  did, 
but  that  we  have  given  one  of  them  at  least  a 
"rocking-chair.")  Sitting  in  comfortable  and  rhyth- 
mic ease  —  rocking,  in  fact  —  and  smoking  a  little, 
cheap,  red  clay  pipe,  Mallarme  would  hold  forth ; 
and  on  all  the  poets  who  heard  him,  these  Tuesdays 
stamped  an  indelible  mark. 


i6o  Six  French  Poets 

The  Tuesdays  were  in  full  swing  when  Regnier 
began  to  publish  in  the  little  reviews.  Soon  his 
work  attracted  the  attention  of  some  of  the  men 
who  frequented  them,  and  soon  Regnier,  too,  was 
among  the  constant  visitors  to  the  rue  de  Rome. 
For  many  years  he  went  there  practically  every 
week.  There  is  a  story  that  one  day,  full  of  emotion, 
he  turned  to  the  Master  and  said,  "  I  am  beginning 
my  tenth  year."  M.  Stuart  Merrill  informs  us  that 
at  these  meetings  Regnier  acted  as  a  sort  of  leader 
of  the  chorus ;  that  he  always  occupied  the  same 
place,  on  a  sofa  at  Mallarme's  right,  and  whenever 
the  great  poet's  monologue  languished  a  little,  he 
would  put  in  the  happy  word  which  started  it  going 
again. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  these  long  conversations 
count  for  much  in  the  education  of  an  artist.  Per- 
haps that  is  one  reason  the  French  succeed  so  mar- 
vellously in  Art ;   they  talk  so  well. 

In  1887,  a  new  review  was  started  under  Rene 
Ghil,  called  Les  Ecrits  pour  VArt.  Mallarme  and 
Villiers  de  ITsle-Adam  were  its  Great  Masters. 
Beside  them,  were  Emile  Verhaeren,  Stuart  Merrill, 
Viele-Griffin,  and  Henri  de  Regnier. 

It  was  sometime  about  1888,  that  Regnier  made 
the  acquaintance  of  Jose-Maria  de  Heredia,  whose 
receptions  at  the  Bibliotheque  de  I'Arsenal  were 
crowded  with  all  the  literary  celebrities  of  the  day. 
Regnier  met    Leconte    de    Lisle    there,   and    Mau- 


Henri  de  Regnier  i6i 

passant  —  a   Maupassant   already   sinking,    and   a 
prey  to  auditory  hallucinations. 

Heredia  had  three  daughters,  all  fond  of  poetry, 
and  perfectly  au  courant  with  the  literary  work  of 
the  day.  His  second  daughter,  Marie,  even  wrote 
verses  herself,  and  now  as  "Gerard  d'HouvIlle"  Is 
known  as  a  poet  of  much  talent.  Henri  de  Regnier 
was  Introduced  to  Mile.  Marie  de  Heredia  at  one 
of  the  gatherings  at  her  father's  house.  Mutual 
interests  naturally  brought  them  together,  and  in 
1896  they  were  married.  I  mention  this  now,  be- 
cause it  seems  to  follow  naturally  after  Regnier's 
meeting  with  Heredia,  and  there  is  nothing  to  cause 
us  to  remember  it  at  the  proper  time.  Regnier  is 
evidently  very  reticent  about  his  private  life.  He 
has  the  aristocrat's  natural  love  of  privacy.  Jean 
de  Gourmont  says  in  his  little  monograph,  "Of  M. 
de  Regnier's  life  I  only  know  some  episodes,  some 
facts,  which  he  has  discreetly  revealed  to  me."  We 
must  not  forget  that  R6gnier  is  still  living,  and  that 
he  Is  doing  so  in  a  country  where  privacy  is  both 
honoured  and  respected. 

A  younger  brother  of  the  Mercure  de  France,  Les 
Entretiens  Politigues  et  Litteraires,  with  VIele-Grlfhn 
as  editor,  was  started  somewhere  about  1890. 
Regnier  became  one  of  its  most  enthusiastic  con- 
tributors. Most  of  the  stories,  later  collected  under 
the  title,  La  Canne  de  Jaspe,  appeared  in  It,  and 
various  essays  and  criticisms  which  are  now  to  be 


1 62  Six  French  Poets 

found  in  the  volume,  Figures  et  Caracteres.  Regnler 
also  contributed  to  a  number  of  other  reviews, 
among  them  La  Wallonie,  of  which  he,  Albert 
Meckel,  and  Pierre-M.  Olin  were  the  editors. 

Up  to  this  time,  Regnier's  life  may  have  been 
said  to  be  in  the  experimenting  stage.  He  was 
laboriously  shaping  himself  into  a  writer,  as  it  were, 
working  with  that  indefatigable  assiduity  which 
has  always  characterized  him.  From  1890,  with  the 
publication  of  Poemes  Anciens  et  Romanesques,  his 
life  ,  enters  upon  another  period,  the  period  of 
constantly  increasing  accomplishment.  In  Poemes 
Anciens  et  Romanesques,  Regnier  steps  out  of  the 
shell  of  which  his  four  previous  volumes  were  only 
chippings,  and  is  hatched  a  full-grown  poet.  He 
attempts  other  metres  than  the  alexandrine,  he  even 
essays  the  uneven  vers  lihre,  built  not  upon  metre 
but  upon  cadence,  which  is  to  be  his  most  charac- 
teristic form,  and  in  which  he  surpasses  every  other 
French  writer.  Viele-Griffin  and  Stuart  Merrill 
were  Americans,  Verhaeren  was  a  Belgian,  and  one 
of  the  retorts  flung  at  the  vers  libristes  used  to  be, 
that  the  reason  they  could  find  this  form  agreeable 
was  that  they  were  foreigners  and  therefore  had  not 
the  peculiar  sensitiveness  of  the  native  ear.  And 
behold,  here  was  a  Frenchman  even  among  French- 
men, who  not  only  understood  and  liked  it,  but 
wrote  it  better,  more  delicately,  more  audaciously, 
than    any   one   else.     Not    even    Verhaeren    could 


Henri  de  Regnier  163 

more  variously  manipulate  it,  more  certainly  guide 
it. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  Poemes  Anciens  et  Roman- 
esques that  I  first  wish  my  readers  to  encounter 
Regnier's  vers  libre.  I  shall  keep  that  for  a  later 
volume,  where  it  is  in  its  magnificent  maturity. 

Henri  de  Regnier  is  "a  melancholy  and  sumptuous 
poet,"  as  Remy  de  Gourmont  has  said.  In  the  first 
Livre  des  Masques  appears  the  following  description  : 
"This  man "  (Regnier)  "lives  in  an  old  Italian  palace, 
where  emblems  and  figures  are  written  on  the  walls. 
He  dreams,  passing  from  room  to  room ;  toward 
evening  he  descends  the  marble  staircase  and 
wanders  about  the  gardens,  which  are  paved  like 
courts,  to  dream  among  the  basins  and  fountains, 
while  the  black  swans  seek  their  nests,  and  a  pea- 
cock, solitary  as  a  king,  seems  to  drink  superbly 
of  the  dying  pride  of  a  golden  twilight." 

You  notice  that  this  is  really  the  palace  with  the 
onyx  pillars  again !  It  is  strange  how  the  same  idea 
seems  to  occur  to  every  one  about  Regnier.  Per- 
haps it  is  because  he,  himself,  has  described  so  many 
beautiful  old  houses,  so  many  formal  gardens  d,  la 
Frangaise. 

Henri  de  Regnier  is  the  poet  of  sadness,  of  gentle 
melancholy,  particularly  in  his  early  books.  He  is 
also  the  poet  of  the  nude.  He  almost  attains  the 
chaste  and  cool  treatment  of  Greek  statues.  Prob- 
ably it  is  this  similarity  of  point  of  view  which  makes 


164  Six  French  Poets 

him  so  often  choose  mythological  subjects.  But  I 
am  far  from  suggesting  that  his  attitude  is  really 
Greek,  in  the  historical  and  pedantic  meaning  of  that 
term,  but  neither  is  it  the  sort  of  Angelica  Kauffmann  ^ 
pastiche  of  Samain's  Aux  Flancs  du  Vase.  Rather 
it  is  the  attitude  of  certain  of  our  English  poets  in 
treating  classical  subjects.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
in  "The  Faithful  Shepherdess,"  for  instance,  or 
Keats  in  "Endymion"  and  "The  Grecian  Urn." 
This  little  poem  will  illustrate  what  I  mean : 

L'eau  des  sources  ou  choit,  le  soir, 
La  mort  unanime  des  roses 
Etait  heureuse  de  nous  voir 
Feigner  nos  chevelures  fauves  .  .  . 

Un  peu  de  cette  eau  nos  miroirs ! 

Les  Fontaines  etaient  sonores 
En  les  bois  de  Lune  et  de  Nuit ; 
Cristal  ou  se  mire  et  s'isole 
Quelque  astre  qui  du  ciel  a  fui  .  .  . 

L'onde  est  tarie  en  nos  amphores ! 

Les  escaliers  courbaient  leurs  rampes  .  .  . 
Oh,  les  pieds  froids  sur  les  paves !  .  .  . 
Les  portes  et  les  hautes  chambres 
Pour  le  sommeil  nu  des  Psyches  .  .  . 

L'huile  est  figee  au  fond  des  lampes ! 


Henri  de  Regnier  165 

That  is  from  a  poem  entitled  "The  Vigil  of  the 
Sands."  Here  is  the  first  section  of  another  poem 
called  Le  Fol  Automne : 

LE  FOL  AUTOMNE 

Le  fol  automne  epuise  aux  guirlandes  ses  roses 
Pales  comme  des  levres  et  des  sourires ; 
Et  le  mal  est  d'avoir  vecu  parmi  les  roses, 
Les  masques,  les  glorioles,  les  delires ! 

Les  ^gypans  rieurs  buvaient  aux  outres  neuves 
Le  vieux  vin  ou  survit  I'ardeur  des  Etes ; 
Les  vignes,  ^grenant  les  grappes  dans  les  fleuves, 
Gonflaient  I'ambre  clair  de  leurs  maturit^s. 

Les  roses  ont  fleuri  les  coupes  et  les  thyrses 

Et  le  pan  des  robes  pueriles ;  I'ame 

Des  fontaines  pleurait  dans  I'ombre ;  autour  des  thyrses 

Les  pampres  semblaient  un  sang  de  torche  en  flamme. 

L'automne  fol  s'epuise  en  supremes  guirlandes, 
Les  satyres  roux  rodent  par  les  bois, 
Et  Ton  suspend  les  masques  vides  par  guirlandes 
Ou  le  vent  rit  aux  trous  des  bouches  sans  voix. 

There  are  many  poems  in  this  book  which  I  should 
like  to  put  in,  but  there  are  more  Important  ones 
waiting  in  other  books.  The  names  of  the  sections 
into  which  the  volume  is  divided  will  show  its  trend. 
Two  of  them  I  have  already  given  you.     The  others 


1 66  Six  French  Poets 

are:  "Greeting  to  the  Stranger,"  "Motifs"  (this  is 
taken  from  the  leit-motifs  of  Wagner,  whose  in- 
fluence was  then  at  its  strongest),  "Of  Legend  and 
Melancholy,"  "Scenes  at  Twilight,"  and  "The 
Dream  of  the  Forest." 

In  1892,  appeared  another  volume  of  poetry,  Tel 
Qu'en  Songe.  The  book  begins  with  the  following 
Exergue,  as  a  sort  of  dedication  or  motto : 

EXERGUE 

Au  carrefour  des  routes  de  la  foret,  un  soir, 
Parmi  le  vent,  avec  mon  ombre,  un  soir, 
Las  de  la  cendre  des  atres  et  des  annees, 
Incertain  des  heures  predestinees, 
Je  vins  m'asseoir. 

Les  routes  s'en  allaient  vers  les  jours 

Et  j'aurais  pu  aller  avec  elles  encor, 

Et  toujours. 

Vers  des  terres,  des  eaux  et  des  songes,  toujours 

Jusques  au  jour 

Ou,  de  ses  mains  magiques  et  patientes,  la  Mort 

Aurait  ferme  mes  yeux  du  sceau  de  sa  fleur  de  paix  et  d'or. 

Route  des  cMnes  hauts  et  de  la  solitude, 

Ta  pierre  dpre  est  mauvaise  aux  lassitudes, 

Tes  cailloux  durs  aux  pieds  lasses, 

Et  j'y  verrais  saigner  le  sang  de  mon  pass^, 

A  chaque  pas, 

Et  tes  chenes  hautains  grondent  dans  le  vent  rude 

Et  je  suis  las. 


Henri  de  Regnier  167 

Route  des  bouleaux  clairs  qui  s'effeuillent  et  tremblent 

Pales  comme  la  honte  de  tes  passants  pales 

Qui  s'egarent  en  tes  fanges  tenaces, 

Et  vont  ensemble, 

Et  se  detoument  pour  ne  pas  se  voir  face  a  face  ; 

Route  de  boue  et  d'eau  qui  suinte, 

Le  vent  h.  tes  feuilles  chuchote  sa  plainte, 

Les  grands  marais  d'argent,  de  lunes  et  de  givre 

Stagnent  au  crepuscule  au  bout  de  tes  chemins 

Et  1 'Ennui  a  qui  veut  te  suivre 

Lui  prend  la  main. 

Route  des  frenes  doux  et  des  sables  lagers 

Ou  le  vent  efface  les  pas  et  veut  qu'on  oublie 

Et  qu'on  s'en  aille  ainsi  qu'il  s'en  va  d'arbre  en  arbre, 

Tes  fieurs  de  miel  ont  la  couleur  de  Tor  des  sables, 

Ta  courbe  est  telle  qu'on  voit  a  peine  ou  Ton  devie ; 

La  ville  ou  tu  conduis  est  bonne  aux  etrangers 

Et  mes  pas  seraient  doux  sur  le  seuil  de  ses  portes 

S'ils  n'etaient  pas  restes  le  long  d'une  autre  vie 

Ou  mes  Espoirs  en  pleurs  veillent  des  Ombres  mortes. 

Je  n'irai  pas  vers  vos  chenes 

Ni  le  long  de  vos  bouleaux  et  de  vos  frenes 

Et  ni  vers  vos  soleils,  vos  villes  et  vos  eaux, 

O  routes ! 

J'entends  venir  les  pas  de  mon  passe  qui  saigne, 

Les  pas  que  j'ai  cms  morts,  helas !  et  qui  reviennent, 

Et  qui  semblent  me  pr^ceder  en  vos  echos, 

0  routes, 


1 68  Six  French  Poets 

Toi  la  facile,  toi  la  honteuse,  toi  la  hautaine, 
Et  j'ecoute 

Le  vent,  compagnon  de  mes  courses  vaines, 
Qui  marche  et  pleure  sous  les  chenes. 

O  mon  ime,  le  soir  est  triste  sur  hier, 
0  mon  ame,  le  soir  est  mome  sur  demain, 
O  mon  kme,  le  soir  est  grave  sur  toi-meme ! 

The  last  three  lines  show  his  point  of  view  at  this 
time.  The  melancholy  is  undoubtedly  sincere,  but 
it  is  the  melancholy  of  a  very  young  man,  half  in 
love  with  his  own  state  of  mind.  But  whatever  the 
idea  may  be,  however  adolescent  the  feeling,  there 
is  no  mistaking  the  masterly  quality  of  the  verse. 
Here  is  no  immaturity,  no  hesitating.  It  is  Regnier 
in  the  full  tide  of  his  perfect  vers  libre.  The  flow 
of  the  poem  is  exquisite.  There  is  not  a  single 
skip-step  in  the  cadence,  and  never  once  the  dull, 
pedestrian  plodding  of  a  prose  line. 

The  titles  of  some  of  the  poems  are  very  peculiar. 
We  are  in  the  heyday  of  Symbolisme,  remember. 
And  very  characteristic  are  these  titles  :  "Some  One 
Dreams  of  Dawn  and  Shadow,"  "Some  One  Dreams 
of  Evening  and  Hope,"  "Some  One  Dreams  of  Hours 
and  Years,"  "Some  One  Dreams  of  Shade  and  For- 
getfulness."  Here  is  the  beginning  of  "Dawn  and 
Shadow :" 


Henri  de  Regnier  i6q 

QUELQU'UN  SONGE   D'AUBE  ET  D'OMBRE 
"J'ai  cm  voir 

Ma  Tristesse  debout  sous  les  saules, 
J'ai  cm  la  voir  —  dit-elle  tout  bas  — 
Debout  aupres  du  doux  misseau  de  mes  pensees 
Les  memes  qu'elles  tout  un  soir 
Qu'au  cours  de  I'eau  passaient  sumageantes  des  roses, 
Epaves  du  bouquet  des  heures  blessees. 
Le  temps  passait  avec  les  eaux  passees ; 
EUe  pensait  avec  mes  pensees 
Si  longtemps  que  le  bois  de  bleuatre  fut  mauve, 
Puis  plus  sombre  et  noir." 

J'ai  cm  voir  ma  Tristesse  —  dit-il  —  et  je  I'ai  vue 

—  Dit-il  plus  bas  — 

EUe  etait  nue. 

Assise  dans  la  grotte  la  plus  silencieuse 

De  mes  plus  interieures  pensees ; 

Elle  y  etait  le  songe  morae  des  eaux  glacees, 

L'anxiete  des  stalactites  anxieuses  ; 

Le  poids  des  rocs  lourds  comme  le  temps. 

La  douleur  des  porphyres  rouges  comme  le  sang ; 

Elle  y  etait  silencieuse, 

Assise  au  fond  de  mon  silence. 

Et  nue  ainsi  que  s'apparait  ce  qui  se  pense. 

Beautiful  as  this  is,  it  strikes  a  slightly  discordant 
note  to  a  modern  ear.  The  desertion  of  the  sym- 
bol to  plunge  into  plain  allegory  is  old-fashioned  — 
was  old-fashioned  even  in  the  days  of  the  Symholistes, 


lyo  Six  French  Poets 

who  attempted  a  greater  subtilty.  It  is  one  of  De 
Regnier's  worst  faults,  and  one  which,  Httle  by 
Httle,  he  has  dropped. 

I  will  quote  one  more  poem  from  Tel  Quen  Songe. 
We  still  have  allegory,  but  more  lightly,  more  in- 
definitely done.  And  how  cleverly  the  scene  is 
sketched  in,  and  all  with  a  sort  of  pathetic  tenderness  ! 
It  is  one  of  the  divisions  of  Quelquhm  Songe  d'Heures 
et  d'A  nnees : 

Les  fruits  du  passe,  nUirs  d'ombre  et  de  songe. 

En  leur  ecorce  ou  jutent  des  coulures  d'or, 

Pendent  et  tombent, 

Un  a  un  et  un  encor, 

Dans  le  verger  de  songe  et  d'ombre. 

Le  crepuscule  doux  decline  et  se  ravive 

Parfois  d'un  soleil  pale  a  travers  les  arbres, 

Et  I'heure  arrive 

Ou,  un  k  un,  arbre  par  arbre, 

Le  vent  touche  les  beaux  fruits  qui  oscillent 

Et  heurtent  leurs  tiedes  ors  pales 

Et  tremblent  encor 

Quand  le  vent  a  passe  et  que  I'ombre  est  tranquille, 

Et  tombent,  un  a  un  et  un  encor. 

La  Tristesse  a  muri  ses  fruits  d'ombre 

Aux  doux  vergers  de  notre  songe 

Ou  le  passe  sommeille,  tressaille  et  se  rendort, 

Au  bruit  de  ses  fruits  mfirs  qui  tombent, 

A  travers  I'oubli  dans  la  mort, 

Un  a  un  et  tm  encor. 


Henri  de  Regnier  171 

The  first  of  his  prose  stories,  Contes  ci  Soi-meme, 
came  out  in  1894;  and  another  prose  story,  Le 
Trejic  Noir,  appeared  in  1895.  The  Contes  d  Soi- 
meme  are  written  in  a  learned  and  over-stylized 
prose,  very  unlike  the  flowing,  rapid  manner  of  his 
present  prose  writing.  It  is  evident,  indeed  we 
know  it  from  his  publications,  that  at  this  time 
Regnier  was  much  more  practiced  as  a  poet  than 
as  a  prose  writer.  Prose  and  poetry  are  different 
arts,  and  have  to  be  studied  quite  separately. 
Words,  ideas,  have  to  be  used  in  almost  opposite 
ways.  A  man  who  can  succeed  in  both  branches  of 
the  difficult  art  of  writing  is  happy  indeed.  Few 
people  have  done  it,  and  Henri  de  Regnier  is  emi- 
nent among  the  few.  Both  Contes  d  Soi-meme,  and 
Le  Trhfle  Noir,  with  various  other  poems  added 
to  them,  were  later  published  under  the  title.  La 
Canne  de  Jaspe,  of  which  I  shall  speak  when  I 
come  to  it. 

At  the  moment,  poetry  still  held  first  place  in  his 
interest,  and  in  1895  also,  a  new  poem,  Arethuse,  was 
published,  which  was  included  two  years  later  in 
Les  Jeux  Rustiques  et  Divins. 

Let  me  deflect  a  moment  to  mention  the  ex- 
traordinary charm  of  Regnier's  titles,  particularly 
those  of  his  poetry  volumes:  "Rustic  and  Divine 
Games,"  "Medals  of  Clay,"  "The  City  of  Waters," 
"The  Winged  Sandal,"  "The  Mirror  of  the  Hours." 


172  Six  French  Poets 

In  reading  these  over  in  a  catalogue,  one  would 
know  that  one  had  to  do  with  a  Symboliste  poet,  and 
also  with  a  poet  of  rare  grace  and  elegance. 

Les  Jeux  Rustiques  et  Divins  is  divided  into  parts, 
as  all  Regnier's  volumes  of  poems  are.  The  first 
part,  Arethuse,  is  subdivided  again  into  three  sec- 
tions; the  first  and  last  are  called  "Flutes  of  April 
and  September,"  and  the  middle  part  is  called  "The 
Man  and  the  Siren."  The  next  large  division  is 
"The  Reeds  of  the  Flute,"  followed  by  "  Inscriptions 
for  the  Thirteen  Gates  of  the  Town,"  "The  Basket 
of  the  Hours,"  and  "Divers  Poems."  I  think  my 
contention  that  Regnier  has  the  gift  of  titles  is 
fully  borne  out  by  these.  This,  Le  Faune  au  Miroir, 
is  one  of  Regnier's  most  beautiful  pseudo-classical 
pieces,  and  written  in  the  alexandrine,  which,  in 
spite  of  its  lesser  originality,  it  must  be  admitted 
he  manages  lightly  and  with  ease. 

LE   FAUNE  AU   MIROIR 

Tristesse,  j'ai  bati  ta  maison,  et  les  arbres 

Melangent  leur  jaspure  aux  taches  de  tes  marbres ; 

Tristesse,  j'ai  bati  ton  palais  vert  et  noir 

Ou  I'if  du  deuil  s'allie  aux  myrtes  de  I'espoir ; 

Tes  fen^tres,  dans  le  cristal  de  leurs  carreaux, 

Refletent  des  jardins  de  balustres  et  d'eaux 

Ou  s'encadre  le  ciel  k  leur  exactitude  ; 

L'echo  morne  y  converse  avec  la  solitude 

Qui  se  cherche  elle-meme  autour  de  ses  cypres ; 

Plus  loin  c'est  le  silence  et  toute  la  foret. 


Henri  dc  Regnier  173 

La  vie  apre,  le  vent  qui  rode,  I'herbe  grasse 

Oii  se  marque,  selon  la  stature  qui  passe, 

Un  sabot  bestial  au  lieu  d'vin  pied  divin ; 

Plus  loin,  c'est  le  Satyre  et  plus  loin  le  Sylvain 

Et  la  Nymphe  qui,  nue,  habite  les  fontaines 

Solitaires  o\x  pres  des  eaux  thessaliennes 

Le  Centaure  en  ruant  ebr^che  les  cailloux, 

Et  puis  des  sables  gris  apr^s  des  sables  roux, 

Les  monstres  du  Desir,  les  monstres  de  la  Chair, 

Et,  plus  loin  que  la  greve  aride,  c'est  la  Mer. 

Tristesse,  j'ai  bati  ta  maison,  et  les  arbres 

Ont  jaspe  le  cristal  des  bassins  comme  un  marbre ; 

Le  cygne  blanc  y  voit  dans  I'eau  son  ombre  noire 

Comme  la  pale  Joie  au  lac  de  ma  memoire 

Voit  ses  ailes  d 'argent  temes  d'un  crepuscule 

Oti  son  visage  nu  qui  d'elle  se  recule 

Lui  fait  signe,  k  travers  1'^  jamais,  qu'elle  est  morte ; 

Et  moi  qui  suis  entre  sans  refermer  la  porte 

J'ai  peur  de  quelque  main  dans  I'ombre  sur  la  cl6 ; 

Et  je  marche  de  chambre  en  chambre,  et  j'ai  voile 

Mes  songes  pour  ne  plus  m'y  voir ;  mais  de  1^-bas 

Je  sens  encor  roder  des  ombres  sur  mes  pas, 

Et  le  cristal  qui  tinte  et  la  moire  que  froisse 

Ma  main  lasse  k  jamais  previennent  mon  angoisse, 

Car  j'entends  dans  le  lustre  hypocrite  qui  dort 

Le  bruit  d'une  eau  d'argent  qui  rit  dans  des  fleurs  d'or 

Et  la  stillation  des  antiques  fontaines 

Oil  Narcisse  buvait  les  levres  sur  les  siennes 

Par  qui  riait  la  source  au  buveur  anxieux ; 

Et  je  maudis  ma  bouche,  et  je  maudis  mes  yeux 

D'avoir  vu  la  peau  tiede  et  touche  I'onde  froide, 


174  "^^^  French  Poets 

Et,  quand  mes  doigts  encor  froncent  I'etoffe  roide, 

J'entends,  de  mon  passe  bavard  qui  ne  se  tait, 

Les  feuilles  et  le  vent  de  la  vieille  foret ; 

Et  je  marche  parmi  les  chambres  solitaires 

Ou  quelqu'un  parle  avec  la  feinte  de  se  taire, 

Car  ma  vie  a  des  yeux  de  soeur  qui  n'est  pas  morte, 

Et  j'ai  peur,  lorsque  j'entre,  et  du  seuil  de  la  porte, 

De  voir,  monstre  rieur  et  fantome  venu 

De  Tombre,  avec  I'odeur  des  bois  dans  son  poil  nu, 

Quelque  Faune  qui  ait  h.  ses  sabots  sonores 

De  la  boue  et  de  I'herbe  et  des  feuilles  encore, 

Et,  dans  la  chambre  tacitume,  de  le  voir 

Danser  sur  le  parquet  et  se  rire  aux  miroirs ! 

V Homme  et  la  Sirene  is  an  allegory,  but  written 
less  flatly  than  many  which  our  poet  has  perpe- 
trated. And,  strangely  enough,  it  is  not  quite  the 
old  story  which  Regnier  has  told  here.  His  siren, 
beautiful,  naked,  seductive,  woos  the  man,  who, 
dreaming  of  giving  her  a  soul  and  making  her  his 
true  companion,  clothes  her,  covers  her  with  jewels, 
and  awaits  the  change  he  expects.  It  does  not 
come.  She,  who  was  nature,  simplicity,  instinct,  he 
has  tricked  up  into  an  artificial  nothing.  He  has 
not  understood  her,  and  she  cannot  reach  him. 
The  sea  receives  her  back  into  its  arms,  and  the  man 
dies,  crucified  by  his  own  blind  prejudice. 

Indeed,  Henri  de  Regnier  is  a  thinker  as  well  as  a 
poet.  And  if  his  poems  are  usually  merely  an  ex- 
pression of  a  mood,  it  is  because  he  has  other  ways 


Henri  de  Regnier  175 

of  clothing  his  larger  conceptions.  He  is  not  tempted 
to  tell  stories  in  verse  after  the  manner  of  Jammes, 
and  Fort,  and  other  moderns,  because  he  has  a 
prose  even  more  adequate  in  which  to  express  them.. 
Now  we  have  arrived  at  what  is  undoubtedly 
Regnier's  poetic  masterpiece :  Le  Vase.  It  is  the 
first  poem  in  the  division  Les  Roseaux  de  la  FlUte. 
I  will  not  spoil  Le  Vase  by  describing  or  analyzing 
it.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  is  the  most  perfect  pres- 
entation of  the  creative  faculty  at  work  that  I 
know  of  in  any  literature. 

LE  VASE 

Mon  marteau  lourd  sonnait  dans  I'air  leger 

Je  voyais  la  riviere  et  le  verger, 

La  prairie  et  jusques  au  bois 

Sous  le  ciel  plus  bleu  d'heure  en  heure, 

Puis  rose  et  mauve  au  cr  opuscule ; 

Alors  je  me  levais  tout  droit 

Et  m'etirais  heureux  de  la  tache  des  heures. 

Gourd  de  m'dtre  accroupi  de  I'aube  au  crepuscule 

Devant  le  bloc  de  marbre  ou  je  taillais  les  pans 

Du  vase  fruste  encor  que  mon  marteau  pesant, 

Rythmant  le  matin  clair  et  la  bonne  journee, 

Heurtait,  joyeux  d'etre  sonore  en  I'air  leger ! 

Le  vase  naissait  dans  la  pierre  fagonnee. 
Svelte  et  pur  il  avait  grandi 
Informe  encor  en  sa  sveltesse, 
Et  j'attendis. 


176  Six  French  Poets 

Les  mains  oisives  et  inqui^tes, 

Pendant  des  jours,  toumant  la  t^te 

A  gauche,  k  droite,  au  moindre  bruit, 

Sans  plus  polir  la  panse  ou  lever  le  marteau. 

L'eau 

Coulait  de  la  fontaine  comme  haletante. 

Dans  le  silence 

J'entendais,  un  k  un,  aux  arbres  du  verger, 

Les  fruits  tomber  de  branche  en  branche, 

Je  respirais  un  parfum  messager 

De  fleurs  lointaines  sur  le  vent ; 

Sou  vent, 

Je  croyais  qu'on  avait  parle  bas, 

Et,  un  jour  que  je  revais  —  ne  dormant  pas  — 

J'entendis  par  dela  les  pr6s  et  la  riviere 

Chanter  des  flutes  .  .  . 

Un  jour,  encor, 

Entre  les  feuilles  d'ocre  et  d'or 

Du  bois,  je  vis,  avec  ses  jambes  de  poil  jaune, 

Danser  vm.  faune ; 

Je  I'aperQus  aussi,  une  autre  fois, 

Sortir  du  bois 

Le  long  de  la  route  et  s'asseoir  sur  une  borne 

Pour  prendre  un  papillon  a  I'une  de  ses  comes. 

Une  autre  fois, 

Un  centaure  passa  la  riviere  k  la  nage ; 

L'eau  ruisselait  sur  sa  peau  d'homme  et  son  pelage ; 

II  s'avanga  de  quelques  pas  dans  les  roseaux, 

Flaira  le  vent,  hennit,  repassa  l'eau ; 


Henri  de  Regnier  177 

Le  lendemain,  j'ai  vu  I'ongle  de  ses  sabots 
Marque  dans  I'herbe  .  .  . 

Des  femmes  nues 

Pass^rent  en  portant  des  paniers  et  des  gerbes, 

Tres  loin,  tout  au  bout  de  la  plaine. 

Un  matin,  j'en  trouvai  trois  k  la  fontaine 

Dont  I'une  me  parla.     Elle  etait  nue. 

EUe  me  dit :  Sculpte  la  pieire 

Selon  la  forme  de  raon  corps  en  tes  pensees, 

Et  fais  sourire  au  bloc  ma  face  claire ; 

Ecoute  autour  de  toi  les  heures  dansees 

Par  mes  soeurs  dont  la  ronde  se  renoue, 

Entrelacee, 

Et  toume  et  chante  et  se  denoue. 

Et  je  sentis  sa  bouche  tiMe  sur  ma  joue. 

Alors  le  verger  vaste  et  le  bois  et  la  plaine 
Tressaillirent  d'un  bruit  etrange,  et  la  fontaine 
Coula  plus  vive  avec  un  rire  dans  ses  eaux ; 
Les  trois  Nymphes  debout  aupres  des  trois  roseaux 
Se  prirent  par  la  main  et  danserent ;  du  bois 
Les  faunes  roux  sortaient  par  troupes,  et  des  voix 
Chanterent  par  dela  les  arbres  du  verger 
Avec  des  flutes  en  eveil  dans  I'air  leger. 
La  terre  retentit  du  galop  des  centaures ; 
II  en  venait  du  fond  de  I'horizon  sonore, 
Et  Ton  voyait,  assis  sur  la  croupe  qui  rue, 
Tenant  des  thyrses  tors  et  des  outres  ventrues, 
Des  satyres  boiteux  piques  par  des  abeilles, 

N 


1 78  Six  French  Poets 

Et  les  bouches  de  crin  et  les  levres  vermeilles 
Se  baisaient,  et  la  ronde  immense  et  frenetique, 
Sabots  lourds,  pieds  legers,  toisons,  croupes,  tuniques, 
Tournait  eperdument  autour  de  moi  qui,  grave, 
Au  passage,  sculptais  aux  flancs  gonfles  du  vase 
Le  tourbillonnement  des  forces  de  la  vie. 

Du  parfum  exhale  de  la  terre  murie 

Une  ivresse  montait  a  travers  mes  pensees, 

Et  dans  I'odeur  des  fruits  et  des  grappes  pressees, 

Dans  le  choc  des  sabots  et  le  heurt  des  talons, 

En  de  fauves  odeurs  de  boucs  et  d'etalons, 

Sous  le  vent  de  la  ronde  et  la  grele  des  rires, 

Au  marbre  je  taillais  ce  que  j'entendais  bruire; 

Et  parrai  la  chair  chaude  et  les  effluves  tiedes, 

Hennissement  du  mufle  ou  murmure  des  levres, 

Je  sentais  sur  mes  mains,  amoureux  ou  farouches, 

Des  souffles  de  naseaux  ou  des  baisers  de  bouches. 

Le  crepuscule  vint  et  je  toumai  la  tSte. 

Mon  ivresse  etait  morte  avec  la  tache  faite ; 

Et  sur  son  socle  enfin,  du  pied  jusques  aux  anses, 

Le  grand  Vase  se  dressait  nu  dans  le  silence, 

Et,  sculptee  en  spirale  a  son  marbre  vivant, 

La  ronde  dispersee  et  dont  un  faible  vent 

Apportait  dans  I'echo  la  rumeur  disparue, 

Tournait  avec  ses  boucs,  ses  dieux,  ses  femmes  nues, 

Ses  centaures  cabres  et  ses  faunes  adroits, 

Silencieusement  autour  de  la  parol, 

Tandis  que,  seul,  parmi,  a  jamais,  la  nuit  sombre, 

Je  maudissais  I'aurore  et  je  pleurals  vers  I'ombre. 


Henri  de  Regnier  179 

Inscriptions  pour  les  Treize  Fortes  de  la  Ville  are 
always  considered  among  the  very  finest  poems 
which  Regnier  has  written.  They  are  dedicated  to 
Brunetiere,  which  is  a  Httle  stroke  of  maHce,  for  the 
poems  were  first  printed  in  the  Revue  des  Deux 
Mondes,  of  which  Brunetiere  was  editor.  He  ac- 
cepted them,  acknowledged  their  beauty,  but  still 
his  conventional  soul  was  severely  wounded  by  cer- 
tain liberties  which  their  author  had  permitted 
himself  to  take  with  the  classic  alexandrine.  Finally 
he  consented  to  print  them,  with  a  note  appended 
exonerating  the  editors  from  all  responsibility  in 
publishing  them.  Regnier  was  considerably  an- 
noyed by  this  suggestion  at  first,  but  when  he 
was  told  that  this  was  only  the  third  time  that 
such  a  thing  had  been  done,  and  that  the  other 
times  were,  once  for  Baudelaire,  and  once  for  La- 
mennais,  he  consented  to  be  labelled  with  the  glo- 
rious stigma. 

I  am  going  to  quote  four  of  these  inscriptions ; 
those  on  the  Gates  of  the  Warriors,  the  Merchants, 
and  the  Comedians,  and  on  the  "Gate  which  goes 
down  to  the  Sea." 

POUR  LA  PORTE  DES  GUERRIERS 

Porte  haute  !  ne  crains  point  1 'ombre,  laisse  ouvert 
Ton  battant  d'airain  dur  et  ton  battant  de  fer. 
On  a  jet6  tes  clefs  au  fond  de  la  citeme. 
Sois  maudite  a  jamais  si  la  peur  te  referme ; 
Et  coupe,  comme  au  fil  d'un  double  couperet, 


i8o  Six  French  Poets 

Le  poing  de  toute  main  qui  te  refermerait. 

Car,  sous  ta  voute  sombre  ou  resonnaient  leurs  pas, 

Des  hommes  ont  passe  qui  ne  reculent  pas, 

Et  la  Victoire  prompte  et  haletante  encor 

Marchait  au  milieu  d'eux,  nue  en  ses  ailes  d'or, 

Et  les  guidait  du  geste  calme  de  son  glaive  ; 

Et  son  ardent  baiser  en  pourpre  sur  leur  levre 

Saignait,  et  les  clairons  aux  roses  de  leurs  bouches 

Vibraient,  rumeur  de  cuivre  et  d'abeilles  farouches ! 

Ivre  essaim  de  la  guerre  aux  ruches  des  armures, 

AUez  cueillir  la  mort  sur  la  fleur  des  chairs  mures, 

Et  si  vous  revenez  vers  la  ville  natale 

Qu'on  suive  sur  mon  seuil  au  marbre  de  ses  dalles, 

Quand  ils  auront  passe,  Victoire,  sous  tes  ailes. 

La  marque  d'un  sang  clair  k  leurs  rouges  semelles ! 


POUR  LA  PORTE   DES  MARCHANDS 

Sois  b6ni,  noir  portail,  qu 'entrant  nous  saluames ! 
Les  coffres  durs  pesaient  a  I'echine  des  anes ; 
Nous  apportions,  pour  les  etaler  dans  les  cours, 
Ce  qu'on  taille  la  nuit,  ce  qu'on  brode  le  jour, 
La  pendeloque  claire  et  I'etoffe  tissee. 
Le  plus  vieux  d'entre  nous  tenait  un  caducee ; 
C'etait  le  maitre  exact  des  trocs  et  des  echanges, 
Et  la  gourde  bossue  et  les  perles  etranges 
Se  melaient  dans  nos  mains  poudreuses,  et  chacun, 
Poxirvoyeur  de  denree  ou  marchand  de  parfum, 
Vidait  son  etalage  et  gonflait  sa  sacoche ; 
Car  tout  acheteur  cede  au  geste  qui  I'accroche 
Par  un  pan  de  la  robe  et  le  bout  du  manteau  .  .  . 


Henri  de  Regnier  igj 

Les  plus  petits  grimpaient  sur  de  grands  escabeaux, 

Et  le  plus  doucereux  comme  le  plus  retors, 

Le  soir,  comptait  et  recomptait  sa  pile  d'or, 

En  partant,  et  chacun,  pour  qu'a  I'ombre  des  haies 

Les  detrousseurs  d'argent  qui  guettent  les  monnaies 

Ne  nous  attendent  point  sur  la  route  deserte, 

O  porte !  et  pour  qu'un  dieu  fasse  nos  pas  alertes, 

Chacun,  sans  regarder  celui  qui  va  le  suivre, 

Cloue  k  ton  seuil  de  pierre  une  piece  de  cuivre. 

POUR  LA  PORTE  DES  COMEDIENNES 

Le  chariot  s'arrgte  k  I'angle  de  mon  mur. 

Le  soir  est  beau,  le  ciel  est  bleu,  les  bles  sont  murs; 

La  Nymphe  tourne  et  danse  autour  de  la  fontaine; 

LeFaunerit;  I'Ete  mysterieux  ramdne 

A  son  heure  la  troupe  errante  et  le  vieux  char, 

Et  celles  dont  le  jeu,  par  le  masque  et  le  fard, 

Mime  sur  le  treteau  ou  pose  leur  pied  nu 

La  fable  populaire  ou  le  mythe  ingenu 

Et  I'histoire  divine,  humaine  et  monstrueuse, 

Qu'au  miroir  de  la  source,  au  fond  des  grottes  creuses, 

Avec  leurs  bonds,  avec  leurs  cris,  avec  leurs  rires. 

La  Dryade  argentine  et  le  jaune  Satyre 

Reprennent  d'age  en  age  k  I'ombre  des  grands  bois. 

Venez !  I'heure  est  propice  et  la  foule  est  sans  voix, 

Et  I'attente  sourit  dej^  dans  les  yeux  clairs 

Des  enfants  et  des  doux  vieiUards,  et,  k  travers 

Ma  porte  qui,  pour  vous,  s'ouvrira  toute  grande, 

Hospitaliere  et  gaie  et  lourde  de  guirlandes, 

Je  vous  vois  qui  venez,  une  rose  k  la  main. 


1 82  Six  French  Poets 

Avec  vos  manteaux  clairs  et  vos  visages  peints, 
Toutes,  et  souriant,  avant  d'entrer,  chacune 
Met  le  pied  sur  la  borne  et  lace  son  cothurne. 


POUR   LA   PORTE   SUR   LA   MER 

Moi,  le  Barreur  de  poupe  et  le  Veilleur  de  proue 

Qui  connus  le  soufflet  des  lames  sur  ma  joue, 

Le  vent  s'echevelant  au  travers  de  I'ecume, 

L'eau  claire  de  I'amphore  et  la  cendre  de  I'ume, 

Et,  clart^  silencieuse  ou  flamme  vermeille, 

La  torche  qui  s'embrase  et  la  lampe  qui  veille, 

Le  degre  du  palais  et  le  seuil  du  decombre 

Et  I'accueil  aux  yeux  d'aube  et  I'exil  aux  yeux  d'ombre 

Et  I'amour  qui  sourit  et  I'amour  qui  sanglote 

Et  le  manteau  sans  trous  que  I'ipre  vent  fait  loque 

Et  le  fruit  mtir  saignant  et  la  tete  coupee 

Au  geste  de  la  serpe  ou  au  vol  de  I'epee, 

Et,  vagabond  des  vents,  des  routes  et  des  flots, 

De  la  course  marine  ou  du  choc  des  galops, 

Moi  qui  garde  tou jours  le  brtiit  et  la  rtuneur 

De  la  come  du  patre  et  du  chant  du  rameur, 

Me  voici,  revenu  des  grands  pays  lointains 

De  pierre  et  d'eau,  et  toujours  seul  dans  mon  destin 

Et  nu,  debout  encor  a  1 'avant  de  la  proue 

Impetueuse  qui  dans  I'ecume  s'6broue ; 

Et  j'entrerai  briale  de  soleil  et  de  joie, 

Carene  qui  se  cabre  et  vergue  qiu  s'eploie, 

Avec  les  grands  oiseaux  d'or  pale  et  d'argent  clair. 

J'entrerai  par  la  Porte  ouverte  sur  la  Mer ! 


Henri  de  Regnier  183 

The  poems  all  purport  to  be  written  in  the  same 
metre,  but  notice  with  what  excellent  art  Regnier 
varies  the  movement  of  each,  so  that  "The  Gate  of 
the  Warriors"  is  almost  as  rhythmic  and  martial  as 
the  steps  of  the  legions  passing  through  it.  The 
b's  and  d's  in  the  line :  "Ton  battant  d'airain  dur  et 
ton  battant  de  fer,"  give  the  heavy  tread  of  the  poem 
at  the  outset ;  while  with  the  first  line  of  "The  Mer- 
chants :"  "Soit  beni,  noir  portail,  qu'entrant  nous 
saluimes"  something  suave,  almost  cringing,  has 
crept  in.  The  merchants  are  timid  people,  or  they 
would  not  nail  a  copper  coin  on  the  sill  of  the  gate 
as  an  offering  to  the  protecting  gods  that  their  steps 
may  be  rapid  and  wary,  and  robbers  be  eluded. 
The  whole  sound  of  the  poem  is  succulent  and  syco- 
phantic. Very  different  again  is  the  light,  advanc- 
ing rhythm  of  "The  Comedians."  The  two  first 
lines  give  a  feeling  of  expectation,  all  the  gaiety  of 
an  evening  of  recreation  after  the  day's  work : 

Le  chariot  s'arrete  a  Tangle  de  mon  mur. 

Le  soir  est  beau,  le  del  est  bleu,  les  bles  sont  murs  ... 

The  cutting  of  the  last  of  these  two  lines  into  thirds, 
has  given  it  a  skipping,  tripping,  care-free  quality ; 
and  the  end  of  the  poem,  where  each  comedian, 
arrayed  and  made  up  for  the  play,  puts  her  foot  up 
on  the  pedestal  of  the  gate  to  be  certain  that  her 
sandal -lace  is  adjusted  and  will  not  trip  her,  is  most 
simple   and   charming.     There   is   a   certain    fresh, 


184  Six  French  Poets 

swirling,  blowing  movement  about  "The  Gate  of  the 
Sea,"  hard  to  define,  but  very  evident,  nevertheless. 
We  feel  the  proud,  almost  haughty  lifting  and  falling 
of  the  figurehead : 

Avec  les  grands  oiseaux  d'or  pale  et  d'argent  clair. 
J'entrerai  par  la  Porte  ouverte  sur  la  Mer  ! 

Now  we  come  to  a  form  which  Regnier  invented 
for  himself,  and  called  Odelette  —  Little  Ode.  It 
is  often  spoken  of  as  being  his  greatest  contribu- 
tion to  poetry ;  which  is  nonsense.  His  greatest 
contribution  is  his  vers  litre  as  a  whole,  and  these 
Odelettes  are  merely  short,  evanescent  poems  in  vers 
litre,  and  should  hardly  be  dignified  by  being  called 
a  form.  But  they  are  as  satisfying  as  they  are 
slight,  and  have  a  piercingly  sweet  little  melody 
that  I  can  remember  nowhere  else.  The  first  one 
is  perhaps  the  most  successful  of  all  he  has  done. 

ODELETTE   I 

Un  petit  roseau  m'a  suffi 

Pour  faire  fremir  I'herbe  haute 

Et  tout  le  pre 

Et  les  doxix  saules 

Et  le  ruisseau  qui  chante  aussi ; 

Un  petit  roseau  m'a  suffi 

A  faire  chanter  la  for^t. 

Ceux  qui  passent  I'ont  entendu 
Au  fond  du  soir,  en  leurs  pensees, 


Henri  de  Regnier  185 

Dans  le  silence  et  dans  le  vent, 

Clair  ou  perdu, 

Proche  ou  lointain  .  .  . 

Ceux  qui  passent  en  leurs  pensees 

En  ecoutant,  au  fond  d'eux-memes, 

L'entendront  encore  et  I'entendent 

Tou jours  qui  chante. 

II  m'a  suffi 

De  ce  petit  roseau  cueilli 

A  la  fontaine  ou  vint  I'Amour 

Mirer,  un  jour, 

Sa  face  grave 

Et  qui  pleurait, 

Pour  faire  pleurer  ceux  qui  passent 

Et  trembler  I'herbe  et  fremir  I'eau ; 

Et  j'ai,  du  souffle  d'un  roseau, 

Fait  chanter  toute  la  foret. 

This  is  what  he  calls  an  ode.     The  difference  in 
weight  and  rhythm  is  very  marked. 

ODE  III 
Je  t'ai  connue, 
Chere  Ombre  nue, 

Avec  tes  cheveux  lourds  de  soleil  et  d'or  pale, 
Avec  ta  bouche  de  sourire  et  de  chair  douce. 
Du  plus  loin  de  mes  jours,  1^-bas,  tu  es  venue 
Au  bout  des  vieux  chemins  de  bles  et  de  mousses, 
Le  long  des  pres,  au  bord  du  bois, 
Alors  que  je  suivais  la  sente  et  le  ruisseau, 


1 86  Six  French  Poets 

Joyeux  du  ruisseau  clair  et  de  la  sente  fraiche, 

Et  qu'a  mes  mains, 

Entre  mes  doigts, 

La  fleur  cueillie  a  I'herbe  epaisse 

Etait  toute  moite  de  rosee 

Et  tremblante  de  Tor  d'une  abeille  posee, 

Au  temps  d'avril  ou  les  roseaux 

Chantaient  d'eux-memes, 

Aupr^s  des  eavix  et  des  fontaines, 

Au  moindre  vent, 

Je  t'ai  connue,  assise  au  porche  sur  le  seuil 

De  la  Vie  et  du  Songe  et  de  I'An, 

Jadis,  toi  qui,  du  seuil, 

Regardais  venir  I'aube  et  tressais  des  couronnes. 

Je  t'ai  revue, 

Chere  Ombre  nue, 

Avec  tes  cheveux  rouilles  d'or  roux, 

Graves  de  tout  le  poids  de  leur  automne  ; 

Le  vieux  vent  d'Est  pleure  dans  les  haies, 

Lourd  d'avoir  rode,  I'aile  basse ; 

Le  pampre  se  desserre  au  tronc  qu'il  desenlace 

Et  la  terre  s'eboule  au  talus  qui  I'etaie  ; 

La  joie  est  breve  et  I'heure  passe, 

Et  chacun  marche  vers  un  autre  qui  recule, 

Et  la  fleur  de  I'aurore  est  fruit  au  crepuscule 

Et  le  fruit  d'or  du  soir  est  cendre  dans  la  nuit. 

Je  t'ai  revue, 
Tu  6tais  nue, 


Henri  de  Regnier  187 

Comme  a  I'aube  ou  je  vins  par  la  route  des  bles, 

Moi  qui  reviens  vers  toi  par  le  chemin  des  chaumes 

Avec  le  soir  qui  tremble  et  le  pas  de  Tautomne 

Aux  echos  de  ma  vie  ou  riait  le  printemps ; 

Que  vas-tu  mettre  aux  mains  que  le  retour  te  tend  ? 

Car  j'ai  perdu  Tobole  et  la  bague  et  la  cle 

Et  la  couronne  en  fleurs  d'espoir  d'ou  j'ai  senti, 

Feuille  h.  feuille,  tomber  la  rose  et  le  laurier ; 

L'opale  s'est  rompue  k  I'anneau  desserti 

Et  ma  voix  de  nouveau  hesite  a  te  prier, 

Car,  debout  k  jamais  et  le  doigt  sur  la  bouche, 

Comme  pour  ecouter  I'echo  du  temps  qui  fuit, 

Ton  silence  obstine,  patient  et  farouche 

Regarde  venir  I'ombre  et  pleure  vers  la  nuit. 

La  Canne  de  Jaspe,  which  I  mentioned  a  few 
moments  ago,  came  out  the  same  year  as  Les  Jeux 
Rustiques  et  Divins,  in  1897.  It  is  not  my  intention 
to  go  into  Henri  de  Regnier's  prose  books  with  any 
minuteness.  Here,  we  are  deaHng  with  him  as  a 
poet,  and  in  that  capacity  alone  he  has  given  us 
quite  enough  to  do.  But  there  is  a  Httle  prose  poem 
in  the  Preface  to  La  Canne  de  Jaspe  which  I  can  by 
no  means  let  pass.  Speaking  of  the  contents  of  his 
book,  he  says:  "There  are  swords,  mirrors,  jewels, 
dresses,  crystal  goblets  and  lamps,  with,  sometimes, 
outside,  the  murmur  of  the  sea  and  the  breeze  of 
forests.  Listen  also  to  the  singing  of  the  fountains. 
They  are  intermittent  and  unceasing ;  the  gardens 
which   they  enliven  are  symmetrical.     The  statue 


1 88  Six  French  Poets 

there  is  either  of  marble  or  of  bronze ;  the  yew  is 
trimmed.  The  bitter  smell  of  box  perfumes  the 
silence  ;  the  rose  blossoms  next  to  the  cypress.  Love 
and  Death  kiss  each  other  on  the  mouth.  The 
water  reflects  the  foliage.  Make  the  round  of  the 
basins.  Go  through  the  labyrinth ;  wander  about 
the  grove ;  and  read  my  book,  page  by  page,  as 
though,  with  the  end  of  your  tall  jasper  cane,  Solitary 
Stroller,  you  turned  over  on  the  dry  gravel  of  the 
walk  a  beetle,  a  pebble,  or  some  dead  leaves."  What 
is  this  but  the  palace  with  the  onyx  pillars  once 
more  !  It  seems  as  though  it  were  such  an  exact  sim- 
ile, that  even  Regnier  himself  could  not  escape  it. 

The  strange  haunting  by  the  past  is  also  here,  in 
the  preface  and  in  the  book.  Regnier's  novels 
are  divided  into  two  kinds.  Those  which  picture 
the  past,  and  those  where  the  scenes  are  laid  in  the 
present.  There  is  one  novel  which,  like  the  Colossus 
of  Rhodes,  spans  the  division,  and  has  a  foot  in 
either  territory.  That  is  Le  Passe  Vivant,  which  I 
mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this  essay. 

The  first  of  Regnier's  long  novels  belongs  to 
the  group  of  the  past.  It  is  La  Double  Afattresse, 
and  was  published  in  1900.  This  book  has  been 
much  admired,  much  abused,  and  widely  read.  My 
copy  is  nine  years  old,  and  dates  therefore  only 
from  the  sixth  year  of  its  publication,  yet  the  title 
page  says  "seventh  edition."  It  is  perhaps  the 
one  of  Regnier's  novels  in  which  the  Rabelaisian 


Henri  de  Regnier  189 

humour  I  have  spoken  of  is  most  apparent.  But 
there  is  a  great  deal  else  in  it.  Among  other  things, 
a  tragedy,  none  the  less  terrible  because  it  borders 
on  the  ludicrous ;  and  an  excellent  and  penetrating 
psychology.  Even  in  its  coarseness  there  is  some- 
thing broad  and  sane  —  very  different  from  the 
perv^erted  innuendoes  and  everlasting  under-sugges- 
tions  of  so  much  of  Remy  de  Gourmont's  work. 
How  it  is  possible  for  a  man  of  Regnier's  delicacy 
to  be  so  coarse,  is  a  problem  for  the  psychologist. 
But  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  this  fastidious 
gentleman  enjoys  a  very  loud  laugh  at  times.  La 
Double  Maitresse  is  certainly  a  masterpiece.  Many 
critics  call  it  his  finest  novel.  It  is  hard  to  say 
"finest"  where  all  are  so  fine.  I  content  myself 
with  saying  "one  of  them." 

But  Regnier  was  not  done  with  poetry,  nor  has 
he  ever  done  with  it.  That  is  the  most  astonishing 
thing  about  him.  It  is  not  as  though  the  poet  in 
him  had  preceded  the  novelist  merely.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  both  run  along  cheerfully  and  rapidly 
side  by  side.  The  same  year  that  saw  the  publica- 
tion of  La  Double  Maitresse,  saw  also  a  new  volume 
of  Regnier's  poems,  Les  Aledailles  d'Argile. 

Yes,  Le  Vase,  which  I  quoted  a  little  while  ago,  is 
Regnier's  best  poem.  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  there 
is  nothing  finer  than  the  Introduction  to  this  new 
book,  or  some  of  the  sonnets  to  Versailles  in  La 
Cite  des  Eaux. 


IQO  Six  French  Poets 

In  Les  Medailles  d'Argile,  the  poet  speaks  of  his 
poems  under  the  metaphor  of  clay  medals,  upon 
which  he  models  his  gods.  His  gods,  which  he  says 
are  the  visible  essences  of  the  Thing  which  underlies 
everything  in  Heaven  or  Earth.  Pantheism,  I  sup- 
pose some  people  would  call  it.  Perhaps  —  does  it 
matter?  It  is  all  his  philosophy  in  a  nutshell,  and 
in  this  Henri  de  Regnier  seems  to  be  less  a  French- 
man than  a  citizen  of  the  world.  At  least,  there  is 
no  trace  of  the  superstition  which  I  mentioned  in 
the  last  chapter.     This  is  the  Introduction : 

J'ai  feint  que  des  Dieux  m'aient  parle ; 

Celui-la  ruisselant  d'algues  et  d'eau, 

Cet  autre  lourd  de  grappes  et  de  ble, 

Get  autre  aile, 

Farouche  et  beau 

En  sa  stature  de  chair  nue, 

Et  celui-ci  tou jours  voile, 

Cet  autre  encor 

Qui  cueille,  en  chantant,  la  cigue 

Et  la  pensee 

Et  qui  noue  a  son  thyrse  d'or 

Les  deux  serpents  en  caducee, 

D'autres  encor  .  .  . 

Alors  j'ai  dit :  Voici  des  Mtes  et  des  corbeilles, 

Mordez  aux  fruits ; 

Ecoutez  chanter  les  abeilles 

Et  I'humble  bruit 

De  rosier  vert  qu'on  tresse  et  des  roseaux  qu'on  coupe. 


Henri  de  Regnier  191 

J'ai  dit  encor  :  Ecoute, 

Ecoute, 

II  y  a  quelqu'un  derriere  I'echo, 

Debout  parmi  la  vie  universelle, 

Et  qui  porte  Tare  double  et  le  double  flambeau, 

Et  qui  est  nous 

Divinement  .  .  . 

Face  invisible !  je  t'ai  gravee  en  medailles 

D 'argent  doux  comme  I'aube  pale, 

D'or  ardent  comme  le  soleil, 

D'airain  sombre  comme  la  nuit ; 

II  y  en  a  de  tout  metal, 

Qui  tintent  clair  comme  la  joie, 

Qui  sonnent  lourd  comme  la  gloire, 

Comme  I'amour,  comme  la  mort ; 

Et  j'ai  fait  les  plus  belles  de  belle  argile 

Seche  et  fragile. 

Une  a  une,  vous  les  comptiez  en  souriant, 
Et  vous  disiez :  II  est  habile ; 
Et  vous  passiez  en  souriant. 

Aucun  de  vous  n'a  done  vu 

Que  mes  mains  tremblaient  de  tendresse, 

Que  tout  le  grand  songe  terrestre 

Vivait  en  moi  pour  vivre  en  eux 

Que  je  gravais  aux  metaux  pieux, 

Mes  Dieux, 

Et  qu'ils  etaient  le  visage  vivant 

De  ce  que  nous  avons  senti  des  roses, 


192  Six  French  Poets 

De  I'eau,  du  vent, 

De  la  foret  et  de  la  mer, 

De  toutes  choses 

En  notre  chair, 

Et  qu'ils  sont  nous  divinement. 

Is  anything  in  any  language  more  lovely  than 
that  ?     If  so,  I  do  not  know  it. 

True  to  his  flair  for  divisions  and  titles,  Regnier 
has  divided  this  book  into  "Votive  Medals,"  "Love 
Medals,"  "Heroic  Medals,"  and  "Marine  Medals." 
Then,  deserting  his  metaphor,  we  have  several 
other  sections  of  which  only  the  last,  "The  Passers-by 
of  the  Past,"  invites  mention.  In  almost  every 
poem  of  the  medal  section,  Regnier  has  kept  to 
the  idea  of  the  modeller.  It  is  nearly  always 
brought  in,  as  though  he  enjoyed  the  difficulty  of 
writing  poems  of  many  kinds  and  writing  them  by 
this  central  symbol,  and  yet  treating  each  one  dif- 
ferently, and  avoiding  any  suggestion  of  monotony. 
When  I  say  that  there  are  sixty-seven  poems  in  the 
medal  section,  it  will  be  seen  what  a  task  this  was. 
This  is  one  of  the  "Votive  Medals : " 


LA  FILEUSE 

Fileuse !    L'ombre  est  tiede  et  bleuatre.     line  abeille 
Bourdonne  sourdement  dans  le  jour  qui  s'endort, 
Et  ton  rouet  se  mele  a  cette  rumeur  d'or 
Aile  qui  peu  k  peu  s'engourdit  et  sommeille. 


Henri  de  Regnier  193 

II  est  tard.     C'est  le  soir.     Le  raisin  a  la  treille 
Pend  et  sa  grappe  est  mure  a  Tessaim  qui  la  mord, 
Mais,  pour  la  vendanger  demain,  il  faut  encor, 
Avant  que  vienne  I'aube  et  que  le  coq  s'eveille, 

Que  j'aie  en  cette  argile  obeissante  et  douce 

Arrondi  de  la  paume  et  fagonne  du  pouce 

Cette  amphore  qui  s'enfle  entre  mes  mains  obscures, 

Tandis  que  mon  labeur  ecoute  autour  de  lui 
Ton  rouet  imiter  de  son  rauque  murmure 
Quelque  guepe  invisible  eparse  dans  la  nuit. 

This  is  a  "  Marine  Medal :  " 

ODE  MARINE 
J'entends  la  mer 
Murmurer  au  loin  quand  le  vent 
Entre  les  pins,  souvent, 
Porte  son  bruit  rauque  et  amer 
Qui  s'assourdit,  roucoule  ou  siffle,  a  travers, 
Les  pins  rouges  sur  le  ciel  clair  .  .  . 

Parfois 

Sa  sinueuse,  sa  souple  voix 

Semble  ramper  k  I'oreille,  puis  recule 

Plus  basse  au  fond  du  crepuscule 

Et  puis  se  tait  pendant  des  jours 

Comme  endormie 

Avec  le  vent 

Et  je  I'oublie  .  .  . 


194  •^''^^  French  Poets 

Mais  un  matin  elle  reprend 
Avec  la  houle  et  la  maree, 
Plus  haute,  plus  desesperee, 
Et  je  I'entends. 

C'est  un  bruit  d'eau  qui  souffre  et  gronde  et  se  lamente 

Derriere  les  arbres  sans  qu'on  la  voie, 

Caknee  ou  ecumante 

Selon  que  le  couchant  saigne  ou  rougeoie, 

Se  meurt  ardent  ou  s'eteint  tidde  .  .  . 

Sans  ce  grand  murmure  qui  croit  ou  cesse 

Et  roule  ou  berce 

Mes  heures,  chacune,  et  mes  pensees, 

Sans  lui,  cette  terre  crue 

Et  crevassee 

Que  ga  et  la  renfle  et  bossue 

Un  tertre  jaune  ou  poussent  roses 

De  rares  fleurs  chetives  qui  penchent, 

Sans  lui,  ce  lieu  apre  et  morose 

D'ou  je  ne  vols  qu'un  horizon  pauvre 

De  solitude  et  de  silence 

Serait  trop  triste  k  ma  pensee 

Car  je  suis  seul,  vois-tu.     Toute  la  Vie 

M'appelle  a  son  passe  encor  qui  rit  et  crie 

Par  mille  bouches  eloquentes 

Derriere  moi,  1^-bas,  les  mains  tendues, 

Debout  et  nue ; 

Et  moi,  couch 6 

Sur  la  terre  durcie  k  mes  ongles  en  sang, 

Je  n'ai  pour  y  sculpter  mon  rdve  fr^missant 


Henri  de  Regnier  iCf^ 

Et  le  rendre  ^temel  en  sa  forme  fragile 

Qu'un  peu  d'argile, 

Rien  d'autre 

Pour  fapotmer  mes  m^iailles  melodieuses 

Oix  je  saLs  dans  la  glaise  ocreuse 

Faire,  visage  d'ombre  ou  profil  de  clart^, 

Scrurire  la  Douletir  et  pleurer  la  Beaate  ,  .  . 

Mais  dans  mon  ^me  au  loin  I'amour  gronde  o^a  roucoule 
Comme  la  mer,  la-bas,  derriere  les  pins  rouges. 

Now  I  am  going  tx>  skip  over  tx>  "Passers-by  of 
the  Past."  These  are  wonderful  little  vignettes  of 
eighteenth  century  characters.  Did  writing  Z>a 
Double  Maitresse  put  them  into  his  head?  Or  are 
they  merely  another  sign  of  that  urging  of  the  past 
upon  him  which  we  come  across  so  often  ? 

The  first  picture  is  a  battle  scene,  or  rather  a  por- 
trait with  a  battle  scene  for  background  : 

TABLEAU   DE   BATAILLE 

n  est  botte  de  cuir  et  cuirasse  d'airain, 
Debout  dans  la  fumee  ou  flotte  sur  sa  hanche 
Le  noeud  ou  pend  I'epee  k  son  echarpe  blanche ; 
Son  gantelet  se  crispe  au  geste  de  sa  main. 

Son  pied  s'appuie  au  tertre  oii,  dans  le  noir  terrain. 

La  grenade  enflammee  ouvre  sa  rouge  tranche, 
Et  I'eclair  du  canon  empourpre,  rude  et  franche, 
Sa  face  bourguignonne  a  perruque  de  crin. 


196  Six  French  Poets 

Autour  de  lui,  partout,  confus  et  minuscule, 
Le  combat  s'enchevetre,  h^site,  fuit,  s'accule, 
Escarmouche,  m^lee  et  tuerie  et  haut  fait ; 

Et  le  peintre  naif  qui  lui  grandit  la  taille 
Sans  doute  fut  loue  jadis  pour  avoir  fait 
Le  h^ros  k  lui  seul  plus  grand  que  la  bataille. 

This  next  one  is  of  a  pet  monkey : 

LE  SINGE 

Avec  son  perroquet,  sa  chienne  et  sa  n6gresse 
Qui  lui  tend  le  peignoir  et  s^che  I'eau  du  bain 
A  son  corps  qui,  plus  blanc  sous  cette  noire  main, 
Cambre  son  torse  souple  ou  sa  gorge  se  dresse, 

EUe  a  fait  peindre  aussi,  pour  marquer  sa  tendresse, 
Par  humeur  libertine  ou  caprice  badin, 
Le  portrait  naturel  de  son  singe  africain 
Qui  croque  une  muscade  et  se  gratte  la  fesse. 

Tr^s  grave,  presque  un  homme  et  singe  en  tapinois, 
Velu,  glabre,  attentif,  il  epluche  sa  noix 
Et  regarde  alentour,  assis  sur  son  seant ; 

Et  sa  face  pelee  et  camuse  ou  I'oeil  bouge 

Ricane,  se  contracte  et  fronce  en  grimagant 

Son  turban  vert  et  jaune  on  tremble  un  plumet  rouge. 


Henri  de  Rcgnier  197 

Here  is  the  most  charming  one  of  all : 

L'AMATEUR 

En  son  calme  manoir  entre  la  Tille  et  I'Ouche, 
Au  pays  de  Bourgogne  ou  la  vigne  fleurit, 
Tranquille,  il  a  vecu  comme  un  raisin  murit. 
Le  vin  coula  pour  lui  du  goulot  qu'on  d^bouche. 

Ami  de  la  nature  et  friand  de  sa  bouche, 

II  courtisa  la  Muse  et  laissa,  par  ^crit, 

Po^mes,  madrigaux,  epitres,  pot-pourri, 

Et  parchemins  poudreux  ou  s'attestait  sa  souche. 

En  perruque  de  crin,  par  la  rue,  k  Dijon, 
S'il  marchait,  appuye  sur  sa  canne  de  jonc, 
Les  Elus  de  la  Ville  et  les  Parlementaires 

Saluaient  de  fort  loin  Monsieur  le  Chevalier, 

Moins  pour  son  nom,  ses  champs,  sa  vigne  et  son  hallier 

Que  pour  avoir  regu  trois  lettres  de  Voltaire. 

The  three  letters  of  Voltaire  have  a  nice  irony  about 
them. 

I  am  going  to  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  print- 
ing just  one  more  of  this  group.  It  is  not  a  por- 
trait, it  is  a  thing.  One  of  those  bright,  Dresden 
china  clocks,  all  painted  porcelain  flowers  and  twin- 
ing bronze  branches.  Henri  de  Regnier  has  a  pro- 
found affection  for  what  Voltaire  calls,  "ce  superflu 
si  necessaire." 


198  Six  French  Poets 

LA   PENDULE   DE   PORCELAINE 

Le  jardin  rit  au  fleuve  et  le  fleuve  soupire 
Du  regret  ^ternel  de  sa  rive  qu'il  fuit, 
La  glycine  retombe  et  se  penche  vers  lui, 
Le  lilas  s'y  reflate  et  le  jasmin  s'y  mire. 

Le  liseron  s'^Iance  et  le  lierre  s*6tire ; 
Un  bouton  qui  germait  est  coroUe  aujourd'hui ; 
L'heliotrope  embaume  1 'ombre  et  chaque  nuit 
Entr'ouvre  un  lys  de  plus  pour  I'aube  qui  I'admire ; 

Et  dans  la  maison  claire  en  ses  tapisseries, 

Une  pendule  de  porcelaine  fleurie 

Contoume  sa  rocaille  ou  I'Amour  s'enguirlande, 

Et  tout  le  frais  bouquet  dont  le  jardin  s'honore 
Survit  dans  le  vieux  Saxe  oii  le  Temps  pour  offrande 
Greffe  la  fleur  d 'argent  de  son  timbre  sonore. 

Gathering  up  his  scattered  essays  contributed  to 
various  reviews  and  particularly  Les  Ecrits  pour 
UArt,  Regnier  brought  them  out  in  1901,  in  a 
volume.  With  this  book  we  have  nothing  to  do. 
The  same  year  produced  Les  Amants  Singuliers,  a 
harking  back  to  the  style  of  tales  with  which  he 
began ;  and  the  next  year,  a  long  novel,  Le  Bon 
Plaisir,  with  the  seventeenth  century  for  scenery, 
and  dedicated  to  his  many- times-removed  grand- 
father, as  I  said  before.  Again,  in  the  same  year, 
came  another  volume  of  poems.  La  Cite  des  Eaux. 


Henri  de  Regnier  199 

The  title  of  this  book  is  taken  from  Michelet's 
line:  "Versailles,  Cite  desEaux."  Henri  de  Regnier 
is  in  love  with  Versailles.  Here,  as  nowhere  else, 
can  he  solace  his  taste  for  old  French  garden  archi- 
tecture, for  stately  buildings,  and  for  the  melancholy 
of  vanished  generations.  With  that  feeling  for  style 
which  he  has  to  so  unusual  a  degree,  with  unerring 
taste,  he  has  chosen  the  formal  sonnet,  the  classic 
French  alexandrine  sonnet  (a  far  inferior  brand  to 
the  Italian  sonnet,  be  it  said),  for  his  tribute  to  Ver- 
sailles. Versailles,  model  of  formality  and  stately 
etiquette ! 

The  dedication,  Salut  d  Versailles,  is  too  long  to 
print  in  its  entirety.  I  will  quote  the  first  part 
(of  course  it  is  in  several  parts),  and  let  me  hastily 
add  that  it  is  not  a  sonnet. 

SALUT  A  VERSAILLES 

Celui  dont  Vkvae  est  triste  et  qui  porte  k  I'automne 
Son  coeur  briilant  encor  des  cendres  de  I'et^, 
Est  le  Prince  sans  sceptre  et  le  Roi  sans  couronne 
De  votre  solitude  et  de  votre  beaute. 

Car  ce  qu'il  cherche  en  vous,  6  jardins  de  silence, 
Sous  votre  ombrage  grave  ou  le  bruit  de  ses  pas 
Poursuit  en  vain  I'echo  qui  tou jours  le  devance, 
Ce  qu'il  cherche  en  votre  ombre,  6  jardins,  ce  n'est  pas 

Le  murmure  secret  de  la  rumeur  illustre, 

Dont  le  si^cle  a  rempli  vos  bosquets  toujours  beaux, 


200  Six  French  Poets 

Ni  quelque  vaine  gloire  accoudee  au  balustre, 

Ni  quelque  jeune  grice  au  bord  des  fraiches  eaux ; 

II  ne  demande  pas  qu'y  passe  ou  qu'y  revienne 
Le  h6ros  immortel  ou  le  vivant  fameux 
Dont  la  vie  orgueilleuse,  6clatante  et  hautaine 
Fut  I'astre  et  le  soleil  de  ces  augustes  lieux. 

Ce  qu'il  veut,  c'est  le  calme  et  c'est  la  solitude, 
La  perspective  avec  I'allde  et  I'escalier, 
Et  le  rond-point,  et  le  parterre,  et  I'attitude 
De  I'if  pyramidal  aupr^  du  buis  taille ; 

La  grandeur  tacitume  et  la  paix  monotone 
De  ce  melancolique  et  supreme  sejour, 
Et  ce  parfum  de  soir  et  cette  odeur  d'automne 
Qui  s'exhalent  de  I'ombre  avec  la  fin  du  jour. 

I  should  like  to  quote  all  these  sonnets,  one  after 
the  other  —  and  only  in  this  way  can  you  get  the 
whole  effect  —  but  as  I  cannot  do  that,  I  have 
picked  out  a  few  here  and  there.  The  first  is  La 
Fagade. 

LA  FAQADE 

Glorieuse,  monumentale  et  monotone. 

La  fagade  de  pierre  effrite  au  vent  qui  passe 

Son  chapiteau  friable  et  sa  guirlande  lasse 

En  face  du  pare  jaune  ou  s'accoude  I'Automne. 


Henri  de  Regnier  201 


Au  medaillon  de  marbre  ou  Pallas  la  couronne, 
La  double  lettre  encor  se  croise  et  s'entrelace ; 
A  porter  le  balcon  I'Hercule  se  harasse  ; 
La  fleur  de  lys  s'effeuille  au  temps  qui  la  moissonne. 

Le  vieux  Palais,  mire  dans  ses  bassins  deserts, 
Regarde  s'accroupir  en  bronze  noir  et  vert 
La  Solitude  nue  et  le  Passe  dormant ; 

Mais  le  soleil  aux  vitres  d'or  qu'il  incendie 

Y  semble  rallumer  interieurement 

Le  sursaut,  chaque  soir,  de  la  Gloire  engourdie. 

Already  the  note  is  struck:  mournful,  echoing. 
We  are  watching  the  dissolution  of  something  beau- 
tiful, fragile,  but  doomed.  And  yet,  how  lovely  it 
is  in  its  decay,  how  much  more  sympathetic  than 
strident  vigour  !     Listen  to  this  of  Le  Bassin  Vert : 

LE  BASSIN  VERT 

Son  bronze  qui  fut  chair  I'^rige  en  I'eau  verdie, 
Deesse  d'autrefois  triste  d'etre  statue ; 
La  mousse  peu  k  peu  couvre  I'epaule  nue, 
Et  I'ume  qui  se  tait  p^se  k  la  main  roidie ; 

L'onde  qui  s'engourdit  mire  avec  perfidie 
L'ombre  que  toute  chose  en  elle  est  devenue, 
Et  son  miroir  fluide  ou  s'allonge  une  nue 
Imite  inversement  un  ciel  qu'il  parodie. 


202  Six  French  Poets 


Le  gazon  tou jours  vert  ressemble  au  bassin  glauque. 

C'est  Ic  meme  carr6  de  verdure  Equivoque 

Dont  le  marbre  ou  le  buis  encadrent  I'herbe  ou  I'eau. 

Et  dans  I'eau  smaragdine  et  I'herbe  d'emeraude, 
Regarde,  tour  k  tour,  errer  en  ors  rivaux 
La  jaune  feuille  morte  et  le  cyprin  qui  r6de. 

How  the  creeping  of  the  moss  up  the  shoulder  of 
the  statue  gives,  in  one  Hne,  the  sense  of  decay ! 
Here  is  another  called  La  Nymphe.  Notice  how 
slightly  and  yet  certainly  it  is  done.  With  how 
little  he  gives  the  colours  and  reflections  in  the  water. 

LA  NYMPHE 

L'eau  calme  qui  s'endort,  d^borde  et  se  repose 
Au  bassin  de  porphyre  et  dans  la  vasque  en  plcurs 
En  son  trouble  sommeil  et  ses  glauques  paleurs 
Reflate  le  cypres  et  reflete  la  rose. 

Le  Dieu  k  la  D^esse  en  souriant  s'oppose ; 
L'un  tient  le  sceptre  et  Tare,  I'autre  I'urne  et  les  fleurs, 
Et,  dans  I'allee  entre  eux,  melant  son  ombre  aux  leurs, 
L' Amour  debout  et  nu  se  dresse  et  s 'interpose, 

Les  talus  du  gazon  bordent  le  canal  clair ; 
L'if  y  mire  son  bloc,  le  houx  son  cone  vert, 
Et  I'obelisque  alterne  avec  la  pyramide ; 


Henri  de  Regnier  203 


Un  Dragon  qui  fait  face  a  son  Hydre  ennemie, 

Tous  deux  du  trou  visqueux  de  leiirs  bouches  humides 

Crachent  un  jet  d'argent  sur  la  Nymphe  endonnie. 

Oh,  they  are  beautiful,  these  poems  !     I  know  noth- 
ing more  perfect  in  any  language. 

Now  let  us  take  an  interior.  He  is  no  less  happy 
there,  as  you  will  see.  And  when  it  comes  to  the 
smell  of  the  box  through  the  window,  we  must 
admit  that  words  can  do  no  more. 

LE   PAVILLON 

La  corbeille,  la  pannetiere  et  le  ruban 
Nouant  la  double  flute  a  la  houlette  droite, 
Le  medaillon  ovale  o\x  la  moulure  etroite 
Encadre  un  profil  gris  dans  le  panneau  plus  blanc ; 

La  pendule  hative  et  I'horloge  au  pas  lent 
Ou  I'heure,  tour  k  tour,  se  contrarie  et  boite ; 
Le  miroir  las  qui  semble  une  eau  luisante  et  moite, 
La  porte  entrebaillee  et  le  rideau  tremblant ; 

Quelqu'un  qui  est  parti,  quelqu'un  qui  va  venir. 

La  Memoire  endonnie  avec  le  Souvenir, 

Une  approche  qui  tarde  et  date  d  'une  absence, 

Une  fenetre,  sur  I'odeur  du  buis  amer, 
Ouverte,  et  sur  des  roses  d'ou  le  vent  balance 
Le  lustre  de  crista!  au  parquet  de  bois  clair. 


204  Six  French  Poets 

La  Cite  des  Eaux  has  other  divisions.  And  they 
are  interesting,  if  you  have  the  fortitude  to  begin 
the  volume  in  the  middle.  But  if  you  start  with 
Versailles,  I  predict  that  you  will  always  remain 
there. 

La  Cite  des  Eaux  was  followed,  in  1903,  by  his 
first  modern  novel,  Le  Mariage  de  Minuit,  and  again 
in  the  same  year  by  another,  Les  Vacances  d'un  Jeune 
Homme  Sage.  This  last  is  a  delightful  story  of  a 
boy  in  his  late  school-days,  and  is  done  with  com- 
plete sympathy  and  seriousness.  No  vestige  of  a 
sneer  ever  mars  it.  The  author  never  patronizes 
his  creation,  young  boy  though  he  is.  By  the 
people  who  find  La  Double  Mattresse  a  little  too 
extreme,  Les  Vacances  d'un  Jeune  Homme  Sage  is 
usually  considered  Regnier's  best  novel. 

Les  Rencontres  de  M.  de  Breot,  published  in  1904, 
was  a  return  to  the  seventeenth  century,  but  in 
rather  a  different  manner.  M.  de  Breot  is  a  series 
of  scenes  rather  than  a  novel,  and  it  is  a  very  strange 
mixture  of  realism  and  fantasticality.  The  two 
sides  of  Regnier  have  each  had  a  hand  for  a  while, 
and  the  result  is  a  book  which  utterly  defies  classi- 
fication. But  when,  in  1905,  Le  Passe  Vivant  ap- 
peared, Regnier  had  flung  a  bridge  over  the  chasm 
in  himself,  and  produced  a  book  which  rested  upon 
both  of  his  personalities. 

Le  Passe  Vivant  is  too  big  a  book,  a  book  with 
too  many  overtones,  to  be  discussed  in  a  paragraph. 


Henri  de  Regnier  205 

Perhaps  the  poetical  side  of  Regnier  comes  out 
more  strongly  in  it  than  in  most  of  his  novels, 
though  they  are  all  impregnated  with  poetry.  It  is 
a  tragic  story  of  a  young  man  who  is  so  obsessed 
by  the  past  that  he  feels  called  upon  to  reproduce 
in  his  own  person,  as  much  as  possible,  the  ancestor 
whose  name  he  bears.  The  result  is  a  series  of  cir- 
cumstances which  make  life  so  hideous  that  the 
duplicate  ends  by  the  young  man  killing  himself  on 
the  spot  where  his  ancestor  had  died  of  a  wound 
received  in  battle. 

It  is  easy  to  sneer  at  this  book  as  a  fairy  story,  or 
a  ghost  story  of  an  unusual  kind.  It  is  neither  of 
these  things,  but  a  profound  study  of  a  fact,  which, 
in  a  lesser,  saner  degree,  I  feel  sure  Henri  de  Regnier 
knows  from  personal  experience  to  be  true. 

La  Sandale  Ailee,  a  return  to  poetry  again,  ap- 
peared in  1906.  The  quality  of  Regnier's  verse 
has  not  exactly  deteriorated,  and  yet  there  is  noth- 
ing in  this  volume  to  equal  Le  Vase,  the  introduc- 
tion in  Les  Medailles  d'Argile,  or  the  sonnets  to  Ver- 
sailles. Yet  there  is  one  poem  which  is  among  the 
poet's  finest  work.  It  is  a  new  note  of  vigour, 
almost  a  joy  of  living.  The  particular  kind  of 
Symbolisme  of  his  early  books  is  fading  out  of  these 
last  volumes.  There  is  a  greater  robustness,  a 
dashing  quality.  But  here  let  me  print  "Sep- 
tember:" 


2o6  Six  French  Poets  ^ 

SEPTEMBRE 

Avant  que  I'^pre  vent  exile  les  oiscaux, 
Disperse  la  feuillee  et  s^che  les  roseaux 
Ovi  j'ai  coup6  jadis  mes  filches  et  mes  flfites, 
Je  veux,  assis  au  seuil  qu'encadre  la  lambrusque, 
Revoir,  avec  mes  yeux  d^j^  demi  fermes 
Sur  ces  jours,  un  k  un,  que  nous  avons  aimes, 
La  face  que  I'Ann^e,  en  fuyant,  mois  ^  mois, 
Detoume,  en  souriant,  de  I'ombre  qui  fut  moi. 

Septembre,  Septembre, 

Cueilleur  de  fruits,  teilleur  de  chanvre, 

Aux  clairs  matins,  aux  soirs  de  sang, 

Tu  m'apparais, 

Debout  et  beau, 

Sur  I'or  des  feuilles  de  la  for6t, 

Au  bord  de  I'eau, 

En  ta  robe  de  brume  et  de  soie, 

Avec  ta  chevelure  qui  rougeoie 

D'or,  de  cuivre,  de  sang  et  d'ambre, 

Septembre, 

Avec  I'outre  de  peau  ob^se 

Qui  charge  ton  6paule  et  p^se 

Et  suinte  a  ses  coutures  vermeilles 

Ou  viennent  bourdonner  les  dernieres  abeilles ! 

Septembre ! 

Le  vin  nouveau  fermente  et  mousse  de  la  tonne 

Aux  cruches ; 

La  cave  embaume,  le  grenier  ploie ; 


Henri  de  Regnier  207 

La  gerbe  de  I'Ete  cMe  au  cep  de  rAutomne ; 

La  meule  luit  des  olives  qu'elle  broie. 

Toi,  Seigneur  des  pressoirs,  des  meules  et  des  ruches, 

O  Septembre,  chante  de  toutes  les  fontaines, 

Ecoute  la  voix  du  podme ! 

Le  soir  est  froid  ; 

L 'ombre  s 'allonge  de  la  for^t, 

Et  le  soleil  descend  derridre  les  grands  chenes. 

Oh,  how  good  that  vers  litre  is,  and  how  unerring 
Rcgnier's  judgment  to  know  when  it  is  indispen- 
sable !  Could  that  movement  of  speed  and  delight 
have  been  got  in  the  alexandrine,  do  you  think  ? 
No  —  "other  times,  other  manners;"  new  metres 
suit  new  minds. 

Another  volume  of  essays  in  1906,  a  series  of 
Venetian  sketches,  also  in  1906.  A  modern  novel, 
and  a  singularly  successful  one,  in  1907,  A  play, 
which  it  must  be  admitted  amounts  to  very  little, 
in  1908.  Another  modern  novel,  L'Amphisb^ne,  in 
1912,  and  the  year  before,  191 1,  the  last  collection 
of  poems  that  he  has  published  so  far,  Le  Miroir  des 
Heures. 

Again,  the  poems  retain  their  extraordinary  tech- 
nique, but  to  any  one  who  knows  his  earlier  books, 
Le  Miroir  des  Heures  ofTers  nothing  either  exception- 
ally good  like  Septembre,  in  La  Sandale  Ailee,  or 
particularly  new.  For  the  first  time,  some  of  the 
Rabelaisian  quality  of  certain  scenes  in  certain  of 
his  novels  has  crept  into  his  poems,  in  the  section : 


2o8  Six  French  Poets 

Sept  Estampes  Amour euses.  Many  of  the  poems  are 
records  of  travel  in  Turkey  and  Italy.  They  are 
pleasant,  adequate  — but  unarresting.  I  do  not 
think  it  necessary  to  quote  anything  from  Le  Miroir 
des  Heures.  I  prefer  to  leave  Septembre  as  the  last 
quotation. 

Another  novel,  Romaine  MirmauU,  came  out  in 
the  Summer  of  19 14,  and  still  another,  which  had 
been  running  in  a  review,  was  to  have  been  pub- 
lished soon  after.  I  suppose  the  war  has  de- 
layed it. 

The  wonder  in  reading  Henri  de  R^gnier's  life  is 
how  on  earth  he  has  been  able  to  accomplish  all  he 
has.  His  novels  show  him  to  be  a  man  of  the  world, 
observant,  experienced,  but  the  labour  of  producing 
twenty-six  books  in  exacdy  twenty-nine  years  is 
enormous.  And  the  genius  (when  practically  all 
the  books  are  masterpieces)  is  incalculable.  Never 
once  in  the  fatigue  of  this  constant  production  has 
Regnier  lowered  his  artistic  standards.  He  has 
told  us  how  he  writes  his  novels,  re-writing  them 
entirely  three  or  four  times  before  they  are  ready  for 
publication. 

In  191 1,  Henri  de  Regnier  was  elected  to  the 
French  Academy,  succeeding  Melchior  de  Vogue. 

Symholisme  is  over.  The  younger  men  are  more 
preoccupied  with  life,  they  need  new  tools  to  express 
new  thoughts.  In  the  next  essay  we  begin  with  the 
Moderns.     Henri  de  Regnier  himself  has  said,  "We 


Henri  de  Regnier  209 

dreamed ;  they  want  to  live  and  to  say  they  have 
lived,  directly,  simply,  intimately,  lyrically.  They 
do  not  want  to  express  man  in  his  symbols,  they 
want  to  express  him  in  his  thoughts,  in  his  sensa- 
tions, in  his  sentiments." 

Whether  this  great  genius  who  Is  Henri  de  Re- 
gnier will  ever  renew  himself  in  his  poetry  as  he  has 
in  his  prose,  remains  for  time  to  show.  It  is  the 
fashion  at  the  moment  to  consider  him  only  as  a 
novelist,  and  to  disparage  his  poetry  in  the  light  of 
his  prose.  But  even  taking  that  into  consideration, 
and  admitting  him  to  be,  in  poetry,  the  voice  of  a 
vanishing  quarter  of  a  century,  he  is  still  the  greatest 
French  poet  alive  to-day,  and  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  that  France  has  ever  had. 


r^ydiiKM^ 


FRANCIS  JAMMES 


FRANCIS   JAMMES 

I  SAID  in  the  last  chapter  that,  in  this,  we  should 
begin  to  study  the  Moderns.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
well,  at  the  outset,  to  inquire  a  little  what  is  modern. 
What  is  this  modern  spirit  which  distinguishes 
Francis  Jammes  and  Paul  Fort  from  the  men  of 
the  Symboliste  group  ?  If  I  were  obliged  to  define 
it  in  a  word,  I  should  say  that  it  was  "exteriority" 
versus  "interiority." 

Since  the  days  of  Musset,  a  long  line  of  poets 
had  been  weeping  their  miseries  in  beautiful  verse. 
Baudelaire,  Verlaine,  Samain,  Regnier,  all  of  them, 
had  found  life  disillusion  (or  said  they  had),  and 
none  of  them  hesitated  to  complain  through  the 
length  of  charming  volume  after  charming  volume. 
Romantics,  Realists,  Naturalistes,  Symbolistes,  were 
all  united  by  one  common  bond,  they  were  con- 
vinced that  a  man  who  did  not  find  the  world  dust 
and  ashes  was  a  philistine.  They  could  be  happy 
for  a  few  brief  moments  in  some  brasserie,  provided 
they  were  rather  noisy  and  vulgar  about  it,  but  it 
was  quite  understood  between  them  and  an  indul- 

213 


214  '^^^  French  Poets 

gent  world  that  they  were  only  spending  a  few  mo- 
ments in  cheating  the  misery  which  was  devour- 
ing them,  that  the  next  morning  they  would  be  as 
unhappy  as  ever.  And  the  brasserie  saw  to  it  that 
they  were. 

It  was  the  convention  that  a  poet  loved  rather 
decrepit  and  faded  things  (how  often  we  find  the 
word  fane  in  their  poems).  Volupte  is  another  word 
they  loved,  and  here  we  have  the  companion  picture 
to  the  brasserie.  They  were  a  pack  of  individualists, 
egoists,  living  in  a  city,  and  inoculating  one  another 
with  the  microbe  of  discontent. 

I  am  far  from  saying  that  they  were  not  great 
poets  —  the  foregoing  chapters  will  have  shown  you 
how  much  I  admire  their  work  —  but  these  men 
were  born  with  a  great  talent.  They  would  have 
been  poets  no  matter  where  they  lived  or  what  they 
thought,  for  one  feels  with  them  that  it  is  their 
poetry  which  counts  and  not  their  ideas.  (Of  course, 
I  except  Verhaeren  from  this  statement.  As  I  said 
in  the  first  essay,  Verhaeren  flew  over  the  interven- 
ing period,  during  those  years  of  illness  in  London, 
and  emerged  a  fully  developed  modern,  some  years 
ahead  of  anybody  else.) 

Neither  do  I  wish  to  convey  the  Idea  that  none 
of  this  long  line  of  poets  was  a  cynic  by  nature. 
Musset,  Baudelaire,  and  Verlaine  had  every  reason 
to  be  unhappy,  both  because  of  their  temperaments, 
and  because  of  the  events  their  temperaments  led 


Francis  Jammes  215 

them  into.  But  what  was  undoubtedly  true  of  a  few 
men,  was  equally  undoubtedly  a  convention  with  the 
majority.  "  Interiority"  was  the  fashion;  a  poet 
examined  his  mental  processes  under  a  microscope 
until  he  was  like  the  gentleman  in  the  story  who  had 
everything  but  "housemaid's  knee." 

Such  a  state  of  things  was  really  utterly  insup- 
portable. Musset  drank  himself  to  death ;  Ver- 
laine  and  Huysmans  fell  exhausted  into  the  arms  of 
the  Church ;  Rimbaud  took  refuge  in  the  Orient, 
married  a  native  wife,  and  wrote  no  more  poems ; 
and  the  greater  number  undoubtedly  learned  to 
enjoy  their  little  pleasures  and  comforts  with  agree- 
able calm,  although  they  continued  to  write  as  though 
suicide  were  just  round  the  corner. 

Somehow,  that  fashion  worked  itself  out,  and 
"exteriority,"  as  I  have  called  the  characteristic 
modern  touch,  came  in.  By  this  extremely  awk- 
ward word,  "exteriority,"  I  mean  an  interest  in 
the  world  apart  from  oneself,  a  contemplation  of 
nature  unencumbered  by  the  "pathetic  fallacy." 
It  is  the  reason  of  the  picture-making  of  the  modern 
poet.  Picture-making  these  other  men  gave  us, 
but  the  Modern  gives  us  picture-making  without 
comment.  A  somewhat  old-fashioned  editor  once 
said  to  me  that  poetry  was  losing  its  nobility,  its 
power  of  inspiration,  because  the  young  poets  were 
only  concerned  with  making  pictures.  I  longed  to 
ask  him  whether  he  would  find  a  portrait  by  Van 


2i6  Six  French  Poets 

Dyck  or  Romney  more  appealing,  if  there  were  a 
little  cloud  issuing  from  the  mouth  of  the  sitter 
upon  which,  somewhere  in  an  upper  corner,  his  or 
her  sentiments  might  be  read,  after  the  manner  of 
our  comic  papers. 

Well,  whether  editors  like  it  or  not,  this  making 
of  pictures  is  one  side  of  the  modern  manner.  An- 
other is  a  certain  zest  in  seeing  things  and  recording 
them.  {Chansons  pour  me  Consoler  d'Etre  Heureux 
is  the  title  of  one  of  Fort's  books.)  The  "modern" 
poet  dares  to  be  happy  and  say  so.  Still  another 
side  of  "modernity"  is  the  feeling  of  unity.  Una- 
nisme,  they  call  it  in  France.  The  knowledge  that 
the  world  is  all  interrelated,  that  each  part  of  it  is 
dependent  upon  every  other.  That  the  butcher, 
the  baker,  and  the  candlestick-maker  are  perform- 
ing im.portant  functions,  of  which  he,  the  poet,  is 
merely  performing  another ;  and  that  love  is  hardly 
more  necessary  in  making  the  world  go  round  than 
a  host  of  other  little  shoves  given  by  trade,  and 
science,  and  art,  collectively. 

Again  let  me  ward  off  misunderstanding  by  re- 
marking that  I  do  not  wish  to  imply  that  "  Modems" 
never  write  about  themselves,  nor  that  the  elder 
poets  never  wrote  purely  descriptive  poems.  It  is 
general  temper  which  makes  a  type,  not  sporadic 
departures  from  it.  Any  poet  may  feel  sad  and 
write  sad  verses,  it  is  only  when  he  writes  no  others 
that  we  are  justified  in  calling  it  a  mode. 


Francis  Jammes  217 

Francis  Jammes  is  the  poet  of  contentment,  of 
observation,  of  simplicity.  He  is  the  poet  of  hills, 
and  fields,  and  barns,  not  of  libraries  and  alcoves. 
His  poetry  blows  across  the  scented  verses  of  the 
'90's  like  the  wind  from  one  of  the  snow-capped 
peaks  of  his  native  Pyrenees. 

In  1893,  there  drifted  to  Paris  a  little  volume  of 
poems  called  simply  Vers.  It  was  privately  issued, 
and  bore  the  name  of  a  provincial  printer  :  J.  Goude- 
Dumesnil,  Orthez.  The  author's  name  was  quite 
unknown  to  the  literati  of  Paris.  Orthez  was  a  little 
town  in  the  Basses- Pyrenees  ;  that  seemed  the  only 
tangible  thing  about  the  book.  But  the  poems  were 
worthy  of  notice  for  their  candour  and  simplicity, 
and  they  piqued  curiosity  by  what  seemed  to  the 
critics  their  anonymity.  The  Mercure  de  France  for 
December,  1893,  contained  a  notice  which  said : 
"This  slim  volume  presents  itself  in  a  mysterious  and 
very  particular  manner.  The  name  of  the  author  is 
unknown.  Is  it  a  pseudonym?  And  it  seems  as 
though  the  spelling  were  not  very  careful :  James 
would  be  more  exact.  The  book  is  dedicated  to 
Hubert  Crackanthorpe  and  Charles  Lacoste.  M. 
Hubert  Crackanthorpe  exists.  He  is  a  young  Eng- 
lish writer  who  has  published  a  volume  of  stories, 
which  are,  it  appears,  very  remarkable,  somewhat 
in  the  manner  of  Maupassant,  and  entitled  'Wreck- 
age.'    The  second  name  is  unknown  to  me." 

So   the   author  must  be   an   Englishman   named 


21 8  Six  French  Poets 

"James,"  or  an  English  boy,  for  farther  on  this 
astute  commentator  says,  "The  few  words,  written 
by  hand  on  the  copy  I  have  before  my  eyes,  are  in 
the  writing  of  an  awkward  Httle  schoolboy."  In  his 
dedication,  Jammes  had  written,  "My  style  stam- 
mers, but  I  have  told  my  truth."  Of  course  he 
stammered,  because  he  was  English  and  so  writing 
in  a  foreign  tongue.  The  Pyrenees  is  one  of  the 
favourite  haunts  of  the  English  ;  it  was  settled  :  the 
author  was  English,  and  his  name  was  James. 

But  Jammes  was  not  English  ;  he  was  the  descend- 
ant of  an  old  Pyrenean  bourgeois  family.  His  great- 
grandfather was  a  notary  in  the  town  of  Albi,  and 
the  family  were  of  enough  consequence  to  have  a 
neighbouring  village  named  after  them.  The  sons 
of  this  gentleman  left  home  to  seek  their  fortunes, 
and  the  grandfather  of  the  poet,  Jean-Baptiste 
Jammes,  became  a  doctor  at  Guadeloupe.  At  first 
he  prospered,  and  souvenirs  of  the  interesting  and 
exotic  life  he  lived  in  the  West  Indies  seem  to  have 
left  an  indelible  impression  upon  the  mind  of  his 
grandson.  But  he  was  ruined  by  an  earthquake,  and 
died  without  returning  to  France. 

Jean-Baptiste  had  married  a  Creole,  and  a  little 
son  was  born  at  Pointe-a-Pitre,  before  the  earth- 
quake. This  boy  was  sent  back  to  France  when  he 
was  seven  years  old,  to  be  brought  up  by  some 
aunts  who  lived  at  Orthez.  Jammes  has  written 
with  feeling  of  the  old  dining-room,  and  the  corner 


Francis  Jammes  219 

of  it  where  his  father  sat,  a  little  waif,  seven  years 
old,  just  arrived  from  Guadeloupe. 

M.  Jammes,  the  father,  grew  up  and  married  — 
whom,  I  have  been  unable  to  find  out  —  and  settled 
in  the  town  of  Tournay  in  the  Hautes-Pyrenees, 
where  his  son,  Francis  Jammes,  was  born  on  the 
second  of  December,  1868. 

Never  was  any  one  more  rooted  to  a  countryside 
than  Jammes  to  the  Midi.  "My  bed,"  he  writes, 
"is  set  down  between  that  grain  of  sand:  the 
Pyrenees,  and  that  drop  of  water :  the  Atlantic 
Ocean.  I  live  in  Orthez.  My  name  is  inscribed  at 
the  mairie,  and  I  am  called  Francis  Jammes."  But 
I  anticipate ;  Orthez  came  later.  His  early  child- 
hood was  passed  at  Tournay.  He  has  given  some 
of  his  early  recollections  in  a  series  of  poems  called 
Souvenirs  d'Enfance : 

J'allai  chez  ^lonsieur  Lay  I'instituteur. 
Mon  alphabet  etait  comme  des  fleurs. 
Je  me  souviens  du  poele  et  de  la  buche 
que  chaque  enfant  du  village  apportait 
lorsque  le  Ciel  est  une  blanche  ruche 
et  qu'on  reveil  on  dit :   "II  a  neige  !" 

Je  me  souviens  aussi  de  la  gaite 
de  mon  tablier,  avix  jours  murs  d'Ete 
quand  je  quittais  I'ecole  un  peu  plus  tot. 
Petit  petit  j 'avals  encore  les  Cieux 
dedans  les  yeux  comme  une  goutte  d'eau 
^  tr avers  quoi  Ton  peut  voir  le  Bon  Dieu. 


220  Six  French  Poets 

Already,  suggested  though  not  stated,  is  that  blue 
of  the  sky  which  Jammes  always  seems  to  be  in  love 
with.  All  his  books  are  cool  and  white  like  snow, 
and  threaded  with  the  blue  of  skies,  of  snow-shadows, 
of  running  water. 

In  these  reminiscences,  he  tells  us  how  he  "suffered 
because  the  nightingale  preferred  the  green  rose- 
bush to  my  heart,"  as  he  expresses  it.  He  tells  of 
being  taken,  one  Sunday,  to  lunch  with  the  notary, 
and  being  told  off  to  play  with  the  notary's  niece ; 
of  how  they  wandered  in  the  orchard  and  "the 
birds  upon  the  branches  were  confiding."  We  see 
the  old  apothecary,  with  his  red  wig  and  his  hat  "d  /a 
Murger,'"  coming  to  take  care  of  him  when  he  is  ill. 
He  goes  fishing  and  catches  a  white  fish.  He  is 
taken  to  Pau  and  sees  some  performing  monkeys, 
and  stands  up  on  his  chair  with  excitement.  One 
of  the  monkeys  is  supposed  to  be  a  soldier  who  has 
tried  to  desert  and  is  shot,  and  the  little  boy  is 
terribly  affected,  he  says  : 

...  la  vision  du  Singe  qu'on  fusille 
tu  le  sais  bien,  elle  est  toujours  en  moi. 

His  love  for  animals  is  very  beautiful,  his  books 
are  full  of  dogs,  cats,  donkeys ;  of  hares,  and  wood- 
cock, and  quail,  and  butterflies,  and  dragonflies.  His 
love  of  nature  began  at  Tournay  : 

Eau,  feuillage,  air,  sable,  racines,  fleurs, 
sauterelles,  lombrics,  martin-pecheurs, 


Francis  Jammes  221 

brume  tombant  sur  quelque  champ  de  raves, 
vrilles  de  vigne  au  toit  du  tisserand  : 
6  doux  genies  qui  m'avez  fait  esclave ! 
Vous  m'amusiez,  moi  petit,  vous  si  grands  ! 

When  Jammes  was  five  years  old,  his  father  was 
made  Receiver  of  Records  at  Bordeaux,  and  the 
family  went  there  to  live.  For  a  brief  time  during 
the  moving,  Jammes  was  sent  to  school  in  Pau.  It 
was  a  "dame-school,"  directed  by  two  ladies. 
Jammes  was  a  petulant  little  boy,  and  probably  the 
restraint  of  a  city  was  irksome  to  him ;  apparently 
the  only  thing  which  he  remembers  with  pleasure 
about  this  period,  is  chasing  butterflies  on  his  way 
home  from  school.  But  Bordeaux  was  another 
story.  It  was  full  of  endless  interests  for  a  growing 
boy  —  the  quays,  with  their  big  ships  perpetually 
loading  and  unloading,  and  that  spicy  smell  which 
haunts  vessels  trading  with  the  Indies  or  the  Orient ; 
the  ship-chandlers'  shops,  with  their  suggestion  of 
deep  waters  ;  and  the  innumerable  bird-sellers'  shops, 
full  of  parrots  and  other  gay-plumaged,  tropical 
birds,  fit  to  rouse  the  imagination  of  the  stolidest 
youngster  that  ever  was  born.  And  Jammes  was 
anything  but  a  stolid  youngster.  He  was  avid  of 
impressions,  and  untiring  in  the  intelligence  he 
brought  to  bear  upon  them. 

The  big  ships  forever  sailing  away,  and  returning 
laden  with  strange  fruits  and  tropical  merchandise, 
filled   the  boy  with   a  sort  of   nostalgia   for  those 


222  Six  French  Poets 

distant,  sun-basking  ports.  His  grandfather  had 
lived  in  one  of  them,  and  his  mind  wrapped  itself  in 
a  delicious  dreaming  about  those  luxuriant  islands 
of  which  he  had  heard  so  much.  He  fell  to  imagin- 
ing his  grandfather  in  his  big  planter's  hat  and  light 
blue  coat,  wandering  round  among  bamboos  and 
cocoa- trees : 

O  P6re  de  mon  P^re,  tu  6tais  la,  devant 
mon  ame  qui  n'etait  pas  nee  et  sous  le  vent 
les  avisos  glissaient  dans  la  nuit  coloniale. 

or  sleeping  : 

.  .  .  au  pied  de  la  goyave  bleue,  parmi 
les  cris  de  I'Ocean  et  les  oiseaux  des  graves. 

All  the  mementoes  of  this  West  Indian  life  he 
cherished  like  sacred  things :  his  grandfather's 
letters ;  his  grandmother's  shawl,  embroidered  with 
flowers  and  birds;  a  trunk  of  camphor- wood,  full 
of  the  murmuring  of  seas  and  forests. 

In  one  of  his  poems  he  speaks  of  the  old  letters : 

TU  ECRIVAIS  .  .  . 

Tu  ^crivais  que  tu  chassais  des  ramiers 

dans  les  bois  de  la  Goyave, 
et  le  medecin  qui  te  soignait  ecrivait, 

peu  avant  ta  mort,  sur  ta  vie  grave. 


Francis  Jammes  223 

II  vit,  disait-il,  en  Caraibe,  dans  ses  bois. 

Tu  es  le  pere  de  mon  pere. 
Ta  vieille  correspondance  est  dans  mon  tiroir 

at  ta  vie  est  amere. 

Tu  partis  d'Orthez  comme  docteur-medecin, 

pour  faire  fortune  la-bas. 
On  recevait  de  tes  lettres  par  un  marin, 

par  le  capitaine  Folat. 

Tu  fus  ruine  par  les  tremblements  de  terre 

dans  ce  pays  ou  Ton  buvait 
I'eau  de  pluie  des  cuves,  lourde,  malsaine,  amere  .  .  . 

Et  tout  cela,  tu  I'^crivais. 

Et  tu  avais  achete  une  pharmacie. 

Tuecrivais:   "La  Metropole 
n'en  a  pas  de  pareille."     Et  tu  disais  :   "Ma  vie 

m'a  rendu  comme  un  vrai  creole." 

Tu  es  enterre,  la-bas,  je  crois,  k  la  Goyave. 

Et  moi  j'ecris  o\x  tu  es  n.€  : 
ta  vieille  correspondance  est  tres  triste  et  grave. 

Elle  est  dans  ma  commode,  a  clef. 

Perhaps  something  of  this  exotic  life  had  really 
crept  into  his  blood.  He  is  said  to  look  like  a 
Creole,  with  "a  great  black  beard,  eyes  nearly  as 
green  as  the  sea,  and  a  sharp  voice."  His  early 
books  are  full  of  this  preoccupation  with  the  tropical 
islands  of  the  West  Indies. 


224  Six  French  Poets 

Side  by  side  with  this  dreaming,  another  interest 
was  growing  upon  Jammes,  he  was  becoming  in- 
terested in  flowers.  Bordeaux  has  an  excellent  botan- 
ical garden.  One  afternoon,  when  the  poet  was  four- 
teen years  old,  he  went  into  this  garden  for  the  first 
time.  It  made  such  an  impression  upon  him  that  he 
even  remembers  that  it  was  a  Thursday,  a  hot  Thurs- 
day afternoon  in  Summer.  He  says  that  there  was  "  a 
white  sun,  with  thick  blue  shadows,"  and  that  "the 
perfumes  were  so  heavy  they  were  almost  sticky." 

From  that  moment,  Jammes'  love  for  old  maps, 
old  marine  charts,  the  lovely  French  names  of  the 
New  World  — •  La  Floride,  La  Louisiane,  La  Carolme, 
La  Martinique  —  and  all  they  evoked,  had  a  rival  in 
his  love  for  flowers.  He  became  an  habitue  of  the 
Botanical  Gardens,  and  might  be  found  there,  defy- 
ing the  heat,  with  his  handkerchief  tucked  into  his 
collar  to  keep  off  the  sun,  studying  the  classification 
of  plants.  At  that  time,  an  old  botanist,  Armand 
Clavaud,  frequented  the  Gardens,  and  taught  botany 
to  occasional  pupils.  Jammes  became  one  of  these, 
and  not  only  learnt  that  "seul  le  papillon-aurore  a 
I'aube  du  Printemps  visite  la  cardamine,"  but  found 
a  friend  who  listened  while  he  read  the  poems  he 
was  beginning  to  write. 

Jammes  does  not  seem  to  have  carried  on  his 
botany  with  a  very  scientific  finality.  Rather,  he 
seems  to  have  dabbled  in  it,  with  the  heart  of  a  poet 
and  the  mind  of  a  delighted  amateur.     Jean-Jacques 


Francis  Jammes  225 

Rousseau  began  to  rival  the  figure  of  his  grand- 
father in  his  dreams  and  affections.  His  favourite 
book  became  the  Confessions,  which  he  called  "son 
livre  ami."  He  never  lost  this  interest  in  Rousseau; 
one  of  his  best  prose  pieces  is  Sur  Jean-Jacques 
Rousseau  et  Madame  de  Warens  aux  Charmettes  et  d, 
Chambery,  and  one  of  his  best  poems  is  to  Madame 
de  Warens.  He  constantly  refers  to  Rousseau,  "  triste 
botaniste"  as  he  calls  him,  and  his  love  of  peri- 
winkles. It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  little 
blue  periwinkle  is  almost  the  same  colour  as  the 
blues  of  the  sky  and  water,  which  I  have  said  so 
pervade  the  work  of  Jammes. 

His  father  dying  in  Bordeaux,  Francis  Jammes  and 
his  mother  returned  to  Orthez,  and  the  young  man 
went  into  the  office  of  a  notary  in  that  town.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  nothing  could  have  been  more 
at  variance  with  his  tastes.  The  dusty  proximity 
of  deeds  and  registers  was  obnoxious  to  him,  and  it 
is  rather  amusing  to  notice  that  their  dull  and  un- 
romantic  present  entirely  obscured  their  past,  which 
may  very  well  have  been  as  full  of  suggestion  as  the 
maps  and  charts  he  loved. 

But  Nature  was  too  much  for  Jammes,  and 
Nature  is  very  importunate  in  the  South  of  France. 
He  wanted  to  strap  his  little  flower-box  on  his  back 
and  be  off  "botanizing"  in  the  fields ;  he  wanted  to 
race  along  the  banks  of  the  Gave  with  his  dogs  ;  he 
wanted  to  do  anything  except  attend  to  business. 

Q 


226  Six  French  Poets 

To  pass  his  days  In  the  close  atmosphere  and  powdery 
sunshine  of  a  lawyer's  office  was  horrible.  But  his 
observant  eye  was  everywhere.  Of  the  common, 
sordid,  dull  people  he  met  while  he  was  with  the 
notary  he  has  made  his  novel  in  verse,  Existences. 
If  the  picture  is  a  true  one,  we  can  hardly  blame 
him  for  chafing  to  get  away. 

Meanwhile,  three  little  volumes  had  slipped  into 
being,  all  privately  printed,  of  which  the  one  I  men- 
tioned at  the  beginning  of  this  essay  was  the  last. 
The  Mercure  de  France  does  not  mention  works  that 
are  entirely  Insignificant;  Jammes  was  justified  In 
determining  to  follow  the  business  of  literature.  So 
the  office  was  abandoned,  and  Jammes  was  free  to 
pursue  the  career  of  poet. 

Francis  Jammes  and  his  mother  settled  down  in 
the  old  house  so  full  of  memories.  The  old  house 
of  the  great-aunts,  whither  his  father  had  been  sent 
from  Guadeloupe.  Charles  Guerin  has  written  of 
this  house : 

O  Jammes,  ta  maison  ressemble  a  ton  visage. 
Une  barbe  de  lierre  y  grimpe,  un  pin  I'ombrage 
Etemellement  jeune  et  dru  comme  ton  coeur, 

and  Edmond  Pilon,  Jammes'  friend  and  biographer, 
describes  it  also:  ''This  cottage  of  Jammes',  all 
twittering  with  birds,  humming  with  bees,  and  sur- 
rounded with  roses,  in  a  garden  which  Is  loud  with 
beehives,  and  shaded  by  a  pine  tree,  stands  on  the 


Francis  Jammes  227 

slopes  of  Orthez.  The  countryside  extends  all  about 
it,  divided  by  the  Gave,  and  watered  by  torrents. 
Here  are  villages,  and  over  there  are  farms ;  the 
flocks  climb  the  flanks  of  the  mountains ;  two- 
wheeled  carriages  bring  the  peasants  to  market ;  a 
cart  makes  a  rut  in  the  plain ;  the  sun  has  warmed 
the  grains  in  the  earth  ;  the  rain  follows  ;  the  plums 
in  the  orchard  are  blue ;  a  girl  dressed  in  foulard 
sings  in  the  lane,  and  the  churlish  beggar  has  gone 
down  the  road." 

But  I  think,  after  all,  that  Jammes  can  describe 
it  best  himself : 

LA  MAISON  SERAIT  PLEINE   DE  ROSES  .  .  . 

La  maison  serait  pleine  de  roses  et  de  gu^pes. 

On  y  entendrait,  rapres-midi,  sonner  les  v^pres ; 

et  les  raisins  couleur  de  pierre  transparente 

sembleraient  dormir  au  soleil  sous  I'ombre  lente. 

Comme  je  t'y  aimer ais.     Je  te  donne  tout  mon  coeur 

qui  a  vingt-quatre  ans,  et  mon  esprit  moqueur, 

mon  orgueil  et  ma  po^sie  de  roses  blanches ; 

et  pourtant  je  ne  te  connais  pas,  tu  n'existes  pas. 

Je  sais  seulement  que,  si  tu  etais  vivante, 

et  si  tu  etais  comme  moi  au  fond  de  la  prairie, 

nous  nous  baiserions  en  riant  sous  les  abeilles  blondes, 

pr^  du  ruisseau  frais,  sous  les  feuilles  profondes. 

On  n'entendrait  que  la  chaleur  du  soleil. 

Tu  aurais  I'ombre  des  noisetiers  sur  ton  oreille, 

puis  nous  melerions  nos  bouches,  cessant  de  rire, 


228  Six  French  Poets 

pour  dire  notre  amour  que  Ton  ne  peut  pas  dire ; 

et  je  trouverais,  sur  le  rouge  de  tes  levres, 

le  gout  des  raisins  blonds,  des  roses  rouges  et  des  gufepes. 

So  much  for  the  outside  of  the  house.     And  this  is 
the  inside : 

LA  SALLE  A  MANGER 

II  y  a  une  armoire  a  peine  luisante 

qui  a  entendu  les  voix  de  mes  grand 'tantes, 

qui  a  entendu  la  voix  de  mon  grand-pere, 

qui  a  entendu  la  voix  de  mon  pere. 

A  ces  souvenirs  I'armoire  est  fidele. 

On  a  tort  de  croire  qu'elle  ne  sait  que  se  taire, 

car  je  cause  avec  elle. 

II  y  a  aussi  un  coucou  en  bois. 

Je  ne  sais  pourquoi  il  n'a  plus  de  voix. 

Je  ne  veux  pas  le  lui  demander. 

Peut-etre  bien  qu'elle  est  cassee, 

la  voix  qui  etait  dans  son  ressort, 

tout  bonnement  comme  celle  des  morts. 

II  y  a  aussi  un  vieux  buffet 

qui  sent  la  cire,  la  confiture, 

la  viande,  le  pain  et  les  poires  mures. 

C'est  un  serviteur  fidele  qui  sait 

qu'il  ne  doit  rien  nous  voler. 

II  est  venu  chez  moi  bien  des  hommes  et  des  femmes 

qui  n'ont  pas  cru  k  ces  petites  ames. 

Et  je  souris  que  Ton  me  pense  seul  vivant 


Francis  Jammes  229 

quand  un  visiteiir  me  dit  en  entrant : 

—  comment  allez-vous,  monsieur  Jammes  ? 

With  Ink  and  paper  and  his  beloved  pipe,  which  he 
adores  and  apostrophizes  in  prose  and  verse,  for 
inside  ;  and  the  blue  sky,  and  the  flowering  fields 
and  shady  trees,  with  the  Gave  "blue  like  air," 
church  bells  ringing  in  the  evening,  and  the  quiet 
moon  over  the  magnolia  trees,  what  more  could 
any  poet  desire  for  the  outside  ?  But  there  was 
more  —  there  were  old  iron  gates  of  great  parks 
leading  up  to  some  half-deserted  chateau ;  there 
were  legends,  and  the  houses  which  contained  them. 
These  things  hitched  themselves  on  to  his  old  dreams 
of  Guadeloupe  and  Martinique,  and  gave  the  poet 
a  whole  new  gamut  of  imaginary  possibilities. 

The  natural  preoccupation  of  a  young  man  peopled 
his  chateaux  with  girls.  Not  the  girls  of  to-day, 
but  the  frail,  graceful  girls  of  fifty  years  ago.  How 
well  Jammes  evokes  them  when  he  says,  "Leurs 
grands  chapeaux  de  paille  ont  de  longs  rubans." 
And  the  names  he  gives  them  !  Clara  d'Ellebeuse, 
who  lived  "au  fond  du  vieux  jardin  plein  de  tulipes  ;" 
Almaide  d'Etremont ;  Pomme  d'Anis,  whose  real 
name  is  Laure.  These  three  are  all  in  prose  stories, 
which  resemble  no  other  prose  stories  in  the  world, 
and  should  really  be  called  poems.  They  are  full 
of  the  details  which  show  "de  quelles  vieilles  fleurs 
son  ^me  est  composee."  There  is  L'Oncle  Tom  in 
Pomme  d'Anis,  whose  joy  is  in  his  greenhouse,  and 


230  Six  French  Poets 

whose  greatest  desire  is  to  make  a  heliotrope  seed, 
found  in  the  tomb  of  an  ancient  Egyptian  lady, 
blossom.  There  is  M.  d'Astin  in  Clara  d'Ellebeuse, 
who  lives  all  alone  in  an  old  house ;  on  one  of  his 
walls  hangs  "a  marine  chart  browned  like  an  old 
shell.  Underneath  it  one  reads  'Indian  Ocean.'" 
It  is  he  who  gave  to  his  friends,  the  D'Ellebeuses, 
"two  pretty  engravings,  one  representing  'a  Mongo- 
lian woman  in  her  dress  of  ceremony  :  summer  ; '  the 
other,  '  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Emperor.'  "  Slight 
touches,  but  so  deftly  done  as  to  evoke  the  whole 
room,  with  the  furniture  of  the  time. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  these  are  prose  stories.     Let 
me  show  you  somewhat  the  same  thing  in  a  poem  : 

J'ECRIS   DANS  UN  VIEUX  KIOSQUE  .  .  . 

J'ecris  dans  un  vieux  kiosque  si  touffu 
qu'il  en  est  humide  et,  comma  un  Chinois, 
j'ecoute  I'eau  du  bassin  et  la  voix 
d'un  oiseau  —  la,  pres  de  la  chute  (chutt ! !) 

d'eau.     Je  vais  allumer  ma  pipe. 
Ca  y  est.     J 'en  egalise  la  cendre. 
Puis  le  souvenir  doucement  descend 
en  inspiration  poetique. 

"  Je  suis  venu  trop  tard  dans  un  monde 
trap  vieux"  et  je  m'embete,  je  m'embete 
de  ne  pas  assister  a  une  ronde 
de  petites  fiUes  aux  grands  chapeaux  etales. 


Francis  Jammes  231 

—  Cora !  tu  va  salir  le  bas  de  ton 
pantalon,  en  touchant  k  ce  vilain  chien. 
Voila  ce  qu'eussent  dit,  dans  un  soir  ancien, 
les  petites  filles  au  bon  ton. 

Elles  m'auraient  regarde,  en  souriant, 
fumer  ma  pipe  tout  douceraent, 
et  ma  petite  niece  eut  dit  gravement : 
II  rentre  faire  des  vers  maintenant. 

Et  ses  petites  compagnes,  sans  comprendre, 

auraient  arrete  une  seconde 

le  charmantage  de  leur  ronde, 

croyant  que  les  vers  allaient  se  voir  —  peut-etre. 

—  II  a  ete  a  Touggourt,  ma  ch^re, 
e^t  dit  le  cercle  des  ecolieres 
plus  agees.     Et  Nancy  eut  declare : 
il  y  a  des  sauvages  et  des  dromadaires. 

Puis,  j'aurais  vu  deboucher  sur  la  route 
le  caracolement  des  anes 
de  plusieurs  messieurs  et  de  plusieurs  dames 
revenant,  le  soir,  d'une  cavalcade. 

Mon  cceur,  mon  coeur,  ne  retrouveras-tu 
que  dans  la  mort  cet  immense  amour 
pour  ceux  que  tu  n'as  pas  connus 
en  ces  tendres  et  defunts  jours  ? 


232  Six  French  Poets 

J  amines'  life  at  this  time  was  made  up  of  dreams 
and  reality,  but  few  poets  have  understood  so  well 
as  he  how  to  combine  the  two.  How  to  make  his 
very  accurate  observation  give  an  air  of  perfect 
naturalness  to  his  most  fantastic  tales.  But  all  the 
time  that  he  was  evoking  a  beautiful,  delicate  past 
in  his  imagination,  he  was  really  living  in  the  little 
rose-covered  house,  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  old 
tapestry  room,  or  tramping  the  fields  and  woods, 
and  breathing  the  bright,  sparkling  air  which  was 
blown  from  the  snow-capped  Pyrenees. 

The  place  got  into  his  blood.  He  loved  it.  "Here 
is  a  bucolic  poet,"  exclaims  Remy  de  Gourmont 
in  the  //'"^  Livre  des  Masques,  "no  kind  of  poet  is 
more  unusual."  Yes,  Jammes  is  a  bucolic  poet, 
such  a  poet  as  France  has  never  seen  before.  Eng- 
land has  had  bucolic  poets  in  no  mean  number,  but 
the  habit  for  centuries  in  France  of  all  men  of  parts 
running  to  the  capital  as  early  in  their  lives  as  pos- 
sible, has  left  no  one  behind  to  sing  the  labours  of 
the  fields. 

By  what  happy  chance  Fate  has  permitted  a  poet 
of  the  first  rank  to  remain  in  the  country,  we  do  not 
know.  But  he  is  in  the  country,  and  a  country  so 
far  away  as  to  make  an  annual  journey  to  Paris  all 
he  cares  to  undertake. 

Let  me  quote  part  of  a  poem  called  Le  Calendrier 
Utile,  which,  for  accuracy,  might  be  taken  from  some 
Farmer's  Almanac : 


Francis  Jammes  233 

LE   CALENDRIER   UTILE 

Au  mois  de  Mars  (le  Belier  T)  on  seme 
le  trefle,  les  carottes,  les  choux  et  la  luzerne. 
On  cesse  de  herser,  et  Ton  met  de  I'engrais 
au  pied  des  arbres  et  Ton  prepare  les  carres. 
On  finit  de  tailler  la  vigne  ou  Ton  met  en  place, 
apres  I'avoir  aeree,  les  echalas. 

Pour  les  bestiaux  les  rations  d'hiver  finissent. 
On  ne  mene  plus,  dans  les  prairies,  les  genisses 
qui  ont  de  beaux  yeux  et  que  leurs  meres  lechent, 
mais  on  leur  dormer  a  des  nourritures  fraiches. 
Les  jours  croissent  d'une  heure  cinquante  minutes. 
Les  Soirees  sont  douces  et,  au  crepuscule, 
les  chevriers  trainards  gonflent  leurs  joues  aux  flutes. 
Les  chevres  passent  devant  le  bon  chien 
qui  agite  la  queue  et  qui  est  leur  gardien. 

So    much    for    the    description    of    March    labours. 
Now  read  this  of  Palm  Sunday : 

Ensuite  vient  le  beau  dimanche  des  rameaux. 

Quand  j'etais  enfant,  on  m'y  attachait  des  gateaux, 

et  j'allais  a  vepres,  docile  et  triste. 

Ma  mere  disait :  dans  mon  pays  il  y  avait  des  olives  .  .  . 

Jesus  pleurait  dans  le  jardin  des  oliviers  .  .  . 

On  etait  alle,  en  grande  pompe,  le  chercher  .  .  . 

A  Jerusalem,  les  gens  pleuraient  en  criant  son  nom  .  .  <. 

II  etait  dovix  comme  le  ciel,  et  son  petit  anon 

trottinait  joyeusement  sur  les  palmes  jetees. 

Des  mendiants  amers  sanglotaient  de  joie, 


234  'Six  French  Poets 

en  le  suivant,  parce  qu'ils  avaient  la  foi  .  .  . 

De  mauvaises  femmes  devenaient  bonnes 

en  le  voyant  passer  avec  son  aureole 

si  belle  qu'on  croyait  que  c'etait  le  soleil. 

II  avait  un  sour  ire  et  des  cheveux  en  miel. 

II  a  ressuscite  des  morts  ...  lis  I'ont  crucifie  .  .  . 

Je  me  souviens  de  cette  enfance  et  des  v^pres, 

et  je  pleure,  le  gosier  serre,  de  ne  plus  ^tre 

ce  tout  petit  gargon  de  ces  vieux  mois  de  Mars, 

de  n'^tre  plus  dans  I'eglise  du  village 

ou  je  tenais  I'encens  a  la  procession 

et  on  j'ecoutais  le  cure  dire  la  passion. 

No  one  is  so  tender  and  charming  in  Bible  stories 
as  Jammes.  Here  is  a  catalogue  of  March  flowers, 
beginning  (and  one  cannot  help  smiling)  with  "peri- 
winkles of  milk-blue,  loved  by  Jean-Jacques :  " 

II  te  sera  agreable,  au  mois  de  Mars, 

d'aller  avec  ton  amie  sur  les  violettes  noires. 

A  I'ombre,  vous  trouverez  les  pervenches  bleu  de  lait 

qu'aimait  Jean- Jacques,  le  triste  passionne. 

Dans  les  bois,  vous  trouverez  la  pulmonaire 

dont  la  fleur  est  violette  et  vin,  la  femlle  vert- 

de-gris,  tachee  de  blanc,  poilue  et  tr^s  rugueusc. 

II  y  a  sur  elle  une  legende  pieuse ; 

la  cardamine  ou  va  le  papillon-aurore, 

I'isopyre  legere  et  le  noir  hellebore, 

la  jacinthe  qu'on  ecrase  facilement 

et  qui  a,  ecrasee,  de  gluants  brillements ; 


Francis  Jammes  235 

la  jonquille  puante,  ranemone  et  le  narcisse 

qui  fait  penser  aux  neiges  des  berges  de  la  Suisse ; 

puis  le  lierre-terrestre  bon  aux  asthmatiques. 

Jammes  does  not  like  small  townspeople.  That 
is  if  his  novel,  Existences,  gives  his  real  point  of  view. 
But  his  whole  soul  is  in  sympathy  with  the  shepherds, 
the  village  people,  the  workers  in  the  fields.  "These 
are  the  works  of  man,"  he  says,  "which  are  great." 

CE   SONT   LES   TRAVAUX  .  .  . 

Ce  sont  les  travaux  de  I'homme  qui  sont  grands : 
celui  qui  met  le  lait  dans  les  vases  de  bois, 
celui  qui  cueille  les  epis  de  ble  piquants  et  droits, 
celui  qui  garde  les  vaches  pres  des  aulnes  frais, 
celui  qui  fait  saigner  les  bouleaux  des  forets, 
celui  qui  tord,  pres  des  ruisseaux  vifs,  les  osiers, 
celui  qui  raccommode  les  vieux  souliers 
pres  d'un  foyer  obscur,  d'un  vieux  chat  galeux, 
d'un  merle  qui  dort  et  des  enfants  heureux ; 
celui  qui  tisse  et  fait  un  bruit  retombant, 
lorsqu'a  minuit  les  grillons  chantent  aigrement ; 
celui  qui  fait  le  pain,  celui  qui  fait  le  vin, 
celui  qui  seme  Tail  et  les  choux  au  jardin, 
celui  qui  recueille  les  oeufs  tiedes. 

That  the  poet  knew  practically  nothing  about  any 
other  life  except  his  own,  and  superficial  glimpses 
while  in  the  lawyer's  office,  did  not  in  the  least 
trouble  him.      Jammes  has  never  been  moved  by 


236  Six  French  Poets 

reason.  His  is  an  emotional  nature,  entirely  swayed 
by  his  sentiments.  Any  judgment  given  by  the 
intellect  alone  would  undoubtedly  seem  to  him  cold 
and  repellent.  Francis  Jammes  is  a  charming  child 
on  one  side,  and  a  most  lovable  genius  on  the  other. 
But  a  man  of  mature  and  balanced  intellect  he  cer- 
tainly is  not.  He  loves  with  all  his  heart,  and  that 
is  a  most  unusual  and  very  refreshing  thing.  How 
he  loves  this  little  village  and  all  its  familiar  sights 
and  sounds ! 

LE  VILLAGE  A  MIDI  .  .  . 

Le  village  a  midi.   La  mouche  d'or  bourdonne 

entre  les  comes  des  boeufs. 

Nous  irons,  si  tu  le  veux, 
si  tu  le  veux,  dans  la  campagne  monotone. 

Entends  le  coq  .  .  .  Entends  la  cloche  .  .  .  Entends  le  paon  .  .  . 

Entends  la-bas,  la-bas,  I'ane  .  .  . 

L'hirondelle  noire  plane. 
Les  peupliers  au  loin  s'en  vont  comme  un  ruban. 

Le  puits  ronge  de  mousse  !   Ecoute  sa  poulie 

qui  grince,  qui  grince  encor, 

car  la  fille  aux  cheveux  d'or 
tient  le  vieux  seau  tout  noir  d'ou  I'argent  tombe  en  pluie. 

La  fiUette  s'en  va  d'un  pas  qui  fait  pencher 
sur  sa  tete  d'or  la  cruche, 


Francis  J  amines  237 

sa  t6te  comme  une  ruche, 
qui  se  mele  au  soleil  sous  les  fleurs  du  pecher. 

Et  dans  le  bourg  voici  que  les  toits  noircis  lancent 

au  ciel  bleu  des  flocons  bleus ; 

et  les  arbres  paresseux 
k  I'horizon  qui  vibre  a  peine  se  balancent. 

And  so  I  have  given  much  of  Jammes'  first  real 
book  before  we  have  got  to  it.  Never  mind,  chrono- 
logically we  are  the  more  accurate,  for  it  was  un- 
doubtedly written  before  it  was  printed.  De  I'An- 
gelus  de  VAube  a  VAngelus  du  Soir  was  published 
by  the  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  in  1898.  Two 
little  books  had  preceded  it.  Un  Jour,  also  pub- 
lished by  the  Mercure  de  France,  in  1896,  and  La 
Naissance  du  Poete,  printed  in  Brussels,  in  1897. 
But,  as  both  these  poems  are  now  included  in  the 
Angelus  volume,  I  prefer  to  speak  of  them  as  a  part 
of  it.  (Another  volume  called  Vers  was  printed  by 
Ollendorf,  Paris,  in  1894.  But,  although  I  am  not 
absolutely  sure,  I  imagine  it  to  have  been  just  a 
reprint  of  the  book  which  first  attracted  the  Mer- 
cure's  attention.) 

La  Naissance  du  Poete  and  Un  Jour  are  now  fol- 
lowed by  a  companion  piece.  La  Mort  du  Poete. 
These  are  a  series  of  three  stories,  vague  and  un- 
solved allegories,  which  Jammes  pleased  himself  by 
writing.  Doubtless  they  were  done  to  soothe  his 
own  feelings,  for  his  biographers  hint  at  "intimate 


238  Six  French  Poets 

sorrows"  lived  down.  Jammes,  like  so  many  young 
Frenchmen,  had  ceased  to  be  a  practising  Roman 
Catholic.  But,  with  his  childlike,  unreasoning,  and 
clinging  mind,  no  other  solution  of  life  was  really 
possible  to  him,  and  it  can  have  been  no  surprise  to 
his  friends  when  he  became  a  professing  Roman 
Catholic  again.  But  we  are  anticipating  by  some 
seven  years.  At  the  time  of  Un  Jour  and  La 
Naissance  du  PoUe,  Jammes  was  not  an  active  member 
of  the  Church,  but  that  his  hereditary  religion  was 
neither  distasteful  nor  indifTerent  to  him,  is  shown 
by  the  fact  that  Un  Jour  ends  by  the  Poet  and  his 
fiancee  kneeling,  one  on  either  side  of  the  wall  parti- 
tion which  divides  their  bedrooms,  and  praying. 

I  wonder  whether  the  dedication  in  my  volume  of 
De  VAngelus  is  contemporary  or  subsequent.  Mine 
is  the  sixth  edition,  issued  in  191 1,  and  from  the 
tone  of  this  dedication  I  believe  it  to  have  been 
tacked  on  later.  If  it  is  not  so  characteristic  of  the 
Jammes  of  1898,  it  is  very  characteristic  of  the  later 
Jammes:  "My  God,  you  have  called  me  among 
men.  Here  I  am.  I  suffer  and  I  love.  I  have 
spoken  with  the  voice  which  you  have  given  me.  I 
have  written  with  the  words  that  you  taught  my 
father  and  mother  and  which  they  have  transmitted 
to  me.  I  pass  upon  the  road  like  a  laden  ass  at 
whom  the  children  laugh  and  who  lowers  his  head. 
I  will  go  where  you  will,  when  you  will. 

The  Angelus  rings." 


Francis  Jammes  239 

As  we  shall  see  later,  Francis  Jammes  approaches 
his  religion  with  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  Saint 
Francis  of  Assisi.  Just  now,  we  must  concern  our- 
selves with  another  trait  in  Jammes'  character. 
His  humour.  Few  Frenchmen  have  his  delightful, 
innocent,  happy  sense  of  humour.  We  shall  see  it 
cropping  out  again  and  again,  as  we  go  through  his 
books.  Let  me  give  you  a  specimen  of  it  from  this 
first  volume : 

ECOUTE,    DANS   LE  JARDIN  .  .  . 

Ecoute,  dans  le  jardin  qui  sent  le  cerfeuil, 
chanter,  sur  le  pecher,  le  bouvreuil. 

Son  chant  est  comme  de  I'eau  claire 
ou  se  baigne,  en  tremblant,  Fair. 

Mon  coeur  est  triste  jusqu'a  la  mort, 

bien  que  de  lui  plusieurs  aient  ete,  et  une  soit  —  folles. 

La  premiere  est  morte.     La  seconde  est  morte ; 
—  et  je  ne  sais  pas  ovi  est  une  autre. 

II  y  en  a  cependant  encore  une 
qui  est  douce  comme  la  lune  .  .  . 

Je  m'en  vais  la  voir  cet  apres-midi. 

Nous  nous  promenerons  dans  une  ville  .  .  . 

Ce  sera-t-il  dans  les  clairs  quartiers 
de  villas  riches,  de  jardins  singuliers  ? 


240  Six  French  Poets 


Roses  et  lauriers,  grilles,  portes  closes 
ont  I'air  de  savoir  quelque  chose. 

Ah  !  si  i'etais  riche,  c'est  \k 
que  je  vivrais  avec  Amaryllia. 

Je  I'appelle  Amaryllia.     Est-ce  bete ! 
Non,  ce  n'est  pas  bSte.     Je  suis  po^te. 

Est-ce  que  tu  te  figures  que  c'est  amusant 
d'etre  poete  a  vingt-huit  ans  ? 

Dans  mon  porte-monnaie,  j'ai  dix  francs 

et  deux  sous  pour  ma  poudre.     C'est  emMtant. 

Je  conclus  de  \k  qu'AmarylUa 
m'aime,  et  ne  m'aime  que  pour  moi. 

Ni  le  Mercure  ni  VErmitage 
ne  me  donnent  de  gages. 

Elle  est  vraiment  tres  bien  Amaryllia, 
et  aussi  intelligente  que  moi. 

II  manque  cinquante  francs  a  notre  bonheur. 
On  ne  pent  pas  avoir  tout,  et  le  cceur. 

Peut-^tre  que  si  Rothschild  lui  disait : 
Viens-t'en  .  .  .  Elle  lui  repondrait : 


Francis  Jammes  241 


non,  vous  n'aurez  pas  ma  petite  robe, 
parce  que  j'en  aime  un  autre  .  .  . 

Et  que  si  Rothschild  lui  disait :  quel  est 

le  nom  de  ce  .  .  .  de  ce  .  .  .  de  ce  .  .  .  poete  ? 

Elle  lui  dirait :  c'est  Francis  Jammes. 
Mais  ce  qu'il  y  aurait  de  triste  en  tout  cela : 

c'est  que  je  pense  que  Rothschild  ne  saurait  pas 
qui  est  ce  poete-1^. 

To  be  published  by  the  Mercure  was  a  great  honour 
for  a  young  poet  (who  was  not  so  very  young  any 
more,  being  thirty),  but  no  regular  publishing  house 
could  print  fast  enough  to  satisfy  him.  In  1898 
also,  he  printed  at  Orthez,  Quatorze  Prieres.  Noth- 
ing more  beautiful,  more  touching,  than  these 
prayers,  can  be  conceived.  In  them  he  shows  the 
"simpleness"  (I  choose  the  word  advisedly)  of  his 
soul.  A  few  of  the  titles  of  these  poems  will  serve 
to  show  Jammes'  sweet,  gentle  nature :  Priere  pour 
que  les  Autres  Aient  le  Bonheur,  Priere  pour  Avoir 
une  Etoile,  Priere  pour  Etre  Simple,  Priere  pour  que 
le  Jour  de  ma  Mort  Soil  Beau  et  Pur,  Priere  pour 
Offrir  a  Dieu  de  Simples  Paroles.     I  will  print  one : 


242  Six  French  Poets 

PRIERE  POUR  ALLER  AU  PARADIS  AVEC  LES  ANES 

Lorsqu'il  faudra  aller  vers  vous,  6  mon  Dieu,  faites 

que  ce  soit  par  un  jour  ou  la  campagne  en  fete 

poudroiera.     Je  desire,  ainsi  que  je  fis  ici-bas, 

choisir  un  chemin  pour  aller,  comme  il  me  plaira, 

au  Paradis,  ou  sont  en  plein  jour  les  etoiles. 

Je  prendrai  mon  baton  et  sur  la  grande  route 

j'irai,  et  je  dirai  aux  ines,  mes  amis : 

Je  suis  Francis  Jammes  et  je  vais  au  Paradis, 

car  il  n'y  a  pas  d'enfer  au  pays  du  Bon-Dieu. 

Je  leur  dirai :  Venez,  doux  amis  du  ciel  bleu, 

pauvres  betes  cheries  qui,  d'un  brusque  mouvement  d'oreille, 

chassez  les  mouches  plates,  les  coups  et  les  abeilles  .  .  . 

Que  je  vous  apparaisse  au  milieu  de  ces  betes 

que  j'aime  tant  parce  qu'elles  baissent  la  tete 

doucement,  et  s'arretent  en  joignant  leurs  petits  pieds 

d'une  fagon  bien  douce  et  qui  vous  fait  pitie. 

J'arriverai  suivi  de  leurs  milliers  d'oreilles, 

suivi  de  ceux  qui  porterent  au  flanc  des  corbeilles, 

de  ceux  trainant  des  voitures  de  saltimbanques 

ou  des  voitures  de  plumeaux  et  de  fer-blanc, 

de  ceux  qui  ont  au  dos  des  bidons  bossues, 

des  anesses  pleines  comme  des  outres,  aux  pas  casses, 

de  ceux  a  qui  Ton  met  de  petits  pantalons 

a  cause  des  plaies  bleues  et  suintantes  que  font 

les  mouches  ent^tees  qui  s'y  groupent  en  ronds. 

Mon  Dieu,  faites  qu'avec  ces  anes  je  vous  vienne. 

Faites  que  dans  la  paix,  des  anges  nous  conduisent 

vers  des  ruisseaux  touflf us  ou  tremblent  des  cerises 


Francis  Jammes  243 

lisses  comme  la  chair  qui  rit  des  jeunes  filles, 
et  faites  que,  penche  dans  ce  sejour  des  ames, 
sur  vos  divines  eaux,  je  sois  pareil  aux  anes 
qui  mireront  leur  humble  et  douce  pauvrete 
a  la  limpidite  de  1 'amour  etemel. 

Jammes  loves  all  animals,  but  apparently  dogs  and 
donkeys  best.  In  another  book,  we  shall  find  a 
whole  series  of  poems  to  the  latter. 

In  1899,  La  Petite  CoUectioft  de  VErmitage,  Paris, 
brought  out  La  Jeune  Fille  Nue.  It  is  another  of 
Jammes'  allegories,  —  the  poet  seeking  solace  from 
his  dissatisfaction  —  and  full  of  the  woods  and  moon- 
light.    It  is  punctuated  with  beautiful  things  like 

this : 

.  .  .  C'est  un  chien  vielleur  qui  aboie 

au  clair  de  lune  dont  I'ombre  bouge  sur  les  roses, 

or  this : 

Nous  I'attendions  k  I'heure  rouge  oix  les  Midis 
balancent  aux  clochers  paysans  leur  ailes  bleues. 

In  1899,  the  first  of  Jammes'  prose  tales  was  pub- 
lished by  the  Mercure  de  France :  Clara  d'Ellebeuse, 
ou  VHistoire  d'une  Ancienne  Jeune  Fille.  I  men- 
tioned this  book  in  another  connection  a  little  while 
ago,  and  I  am  not  going  into  it  any  farther  now. 
It  is  all  aroma,  all  evanescent,  fleeting  sensation. 
To  rehearse  the  story  heavy-footedly  would  be  like 
dissecting  a  butterfly  to  prove  how  pretty  it  was. 
In  it,  Jammes  has  twined  a  three-stranded  cord  of 


244  -^^^  French  Poets 

his  greatest  delights.  One  strand  is  his  love  of  the 
past ;  one,  his  love  of  the  West  Indies ;  and  one, 
his  deep-rooted  affection  for  the  high,  blue  sky,  the 
quick,  blue  streams,  and  the  long,  white  roads  of 
the  Basses-Pyrenees. 

During  these  years,  Jammes  had  travelled.  Not 
much,  it  must  be  admitted.  He  dreamed  of  travel- 
ling, revelled  in  the  idea  of  it,  sitting  at  home  in  his 
armchair;  one  of  his  pipes  was  "round  and  black 
like  the  breast  of  a  little  negress,"  he  tells  us,  and 
presto  —  he  was  off  to  his  beloved  Islands  in  the 
Southern  Sea,  growing  sugar  cane  and  bartering 
spices  as  his  grandfather  had  done.  "For  years," 
he  says,  "I  lived  there,  where  my  grandfather  and 
my  great-uncle  went,  in  the  flowering  Antilles." 

But  his  grandfather's  were  not  the  only  travels 
he  mused  about.  We  have  seen  in  Clara  d'Elle- 
beuse  that  China  attracted  him.  Adventure  in  far 
countries  he  found  irresistible ;  by  preference  the 
countries  should  be  tropical,  or  at  least  richly 
caparisoned.  From  a  child  he  had  loved  Sinbad 
and  Robinson  Crusoe,  we  find  both  these  gentlemen 
in  his  poems.  So  he  smoked  and  dreamed,  and  — 
managed  to  get  as  far  as  Amsterdam  on  the  North, 
and  Algiers  on  the  South. 

One  of  his  most  charming  poems  in  Le  Deuil  des 
Primeveres,  published  by  the  Mercure  in  1901,  is  on 
Amsterdam. 


Francis  Jammes  245 

AMSTERDAM 

Les  maisons  pointues  ont  I'air  de  pencher.     On  dirait 

qu'elles  tombent.     Les  mats  des  vaisseaux  qui  s'embrouillent 

dans  le  ciel  sont  penches  comme  des  branches  s^ches 

au  milieu  de  verdure,  de  rouge,  de  rouille, 

de  harengs  saurs,  de  peaux  de  moutons  et  de  houille. 

Robinson  Crusoe  passa  par  Amsterdam, 

(je  crois,  du  moins,  qu'il  y  passa),  en  revenant 

de  I'ile  ombreuse  et  verte  aux  noix  de  coco  fraiches. 

Quelle  emotion  il  dut  avoir  quand  il  vit  luire 

les  portes  6normes,  aux  lourds  marteaux,  de  cette  ville !  .  .  . 

Regardait-il  curieusement  les  entresols 

ou  les  commis  ^crivent  des  livres  de  comptes  ? 

Eut-il  envie  de  pleurer  en  resongeant 

k  son  cher  perroquet,  a  son  lourd  parasol 

qui  I'abritait  dans  I'ile  attristee  et  cl^mente  ? 

"O  Etemel !  soyez  beni,"  s'ecriait-il 
devant  les  coffres  peinturlures  de  tulipes. 
Mais  son  coeur  attriste  par  la  joie  du  retour 
regrettait  son  chevreau  qui,  aux  vignes  de  I'ile, 
^tait  reste  tout  seul  et,  peut-^tre,  etait  mort. 

Et  j'ai  pense  ^  ga  devant  les  gros  commerces 
ovL  Ton  songe  a  des  Juifs  qui  touchent  des  balances, 
avec  des  doigts  osseux  noues  de  bagues  vertes. 
Vois  !     Amsterdam  s'endort  sous  les  cils  de  la  neige 
dans  un  parfum  de  brume  et  de  charbon  amer. 


246  Six  French  Poets 


Hier  soir  les  globes  blancs  des  bouges  allumes, 
d'ou  Ton  entend  I'appel  siffle  des  femmes  lourdes, 
pendaient  comme  des  fruits  ressemblant  k  des  gourdes. 
Bleues,  rouges,  vertes,  les  affiches  y  luisaient. 
L'amer  picotement  de  la  biere  sucree 
m'y  a  ripe  la  langue  et  demange  au  nez. 

Et,  dans  les  quartiers  juifs  ou  sont  les  detritus, 
on  sentait  I'odeur  crue  et  froide  du  poisson. 
Sur  les  paves  gluants  etaient  des  peaux  d'orange. 
Une  tete  bouffie  ouvrait  des  yeux  tout  larges, 
un  bras  qui  discutait  agitait  des  oignons. 

Rebecca,  vous  vendiez  k  de  petites  tables 
quelques  bonbons  suants  arranges  pauvrement  .  .  . 

On  eM  dit  que  le  ciel,  ainsi  qu'une  mer  sale, 
versat  dans  les  canaux  des  nuages  de  vagues. 
Fumee  qu'on  ne  voit  pas,  le  calme  commercial 
montait  des  toits  cossus  en  nappes  imposantes, 
et  Ton  respirait  I'lnde  au  confort  des  maisons. 

Ah  !  j'aurais  voulu  ^tre  un  grand  negociant, 
de  ceux  qui  autrefois  s'en  allaient  d'Amsterdam 
vers  la  Chine,  confiant  1' administration 
de  leur  maison  a  de  fideles  mandataires. 
Ainsi  que  Robinson  j'aurais  devant  notaire 
sign6  pompeusement  ma  procuration. 

Alors,  ma  probite  aurait  fait  ma  fortune. 
Mon  negoce  eut  fleuri  comme  un  rayon  de  lune 


Francis  Jammes  247 

sur  I'imposante  proue  de  mon  vaisseau  bombe. 
J'aiirais  regu  chez  moi  les  seigneurs  de  Bombay 
qu'eiit  tentes  mon  epouse  k  la  belle  sante. 

Un  negre  aux  anneaux  d'or  fut  venu  du  Mogol 
trafiquer,  souriant,  sous  son  grand  parasol ! 
II  avirait  enchante  de  ses  recits  sauvages 
ma  mince  fille  ainee,  a  qui  il  eut  offert 
une  robe  en  rubis  file  par  des  esclaves. 

J'aurais  fait  faire  les  portraits  de  ma  famille 
par  quelque  habile  peintre  au  sort  infortune  : 
ma  femme  belle  et  lourde,  aux  blondes  joues  rosees, 
mes  fils,  dont  la  beaute  aurait  charme  la  ville, 
et  la  grace  diverse  et  pxire  de  mes  fiUes. 

C'est  ainsi  qu'aujourd'hui,  au  lieu  d'etre  moi-meme, 
j'aurais  et^  un  autre  et  j'aurais  visite 
I'imposante  maison  de  ces  siecles  passes, 
et  que,  reveur,  j'eusse  laisse  flotter  mon  ame 
devant  ces  simples  mots :  la  vecut  Francis  Jammes. 

I  hope  you  observed  Robinson  Crusoe. 

The  Primeveres  begins  with  seventeen  Elegies. 
The  first  one,  to  Albert  Samain,  I  quoted  in  the 
second  essay.  These  are  followed  by  a  reprint  of 
La  Jeune  Fille  Nue,  and  Le  Poete  et  VOiseau  (which 
had  been  pubHshed  two  years  before  by  VErmitage), 
a  half-a-dozen  new  poems,  and  the  fourteen  poems 
printed  at  Orthez. 


248  Six  French  Poets 

Some  time  ago,  I  mentioned  a  poem  on  Madame 
de  Warens,  as  being  one  of  Jammes'  best  and  most 
famous  poems.     This  is  it : 


MADAME   DE  WARENS 

Madame  de  Warens,  vous  regardiez  I'orage 
plisser  les  arbres  obscurs  des  tristes  Charmettes, 
ou  bien  vous  jouiez  aigrement  de  I'epinette, 
6  femme  de  raison  que  sermonnait  Jean-Jacques ! 

C'etait  un  soir  pareil,  peut-^tre,  a  celui-ci  .  .  . 
Par  le  tonnerre  noir  le  ciel  etait  fletri  .  .  . 
Une  odeur  de  rameaux  coupes  avant  la  pluie 
s'^levait  tristement  des  bordures  de  buis  .  .  . 

Et  je  revois,  boudeur,  dans  son  petit  habit, 

k  vos  genoux,  I'enfant  poete  et  philosophe  .  .  . 

Mais  qu'avait-il  ?  .  .  .  Pourquoi  pleurant  aux  couchants  roses 

regardait-il  se  balancer  les  nids  de  pies  ? 

Oh !  qu'il  vous  supplia,  souvent,  du  fond  de  I'ame, 

de  mettre  un  frein  aux  depenses  exagerees 

que  vous  faisiez  avec  cette  leg^rete 

qui  est,  helas,  le  fait  de  la  plupart  des  femmes  .  .  . 

Mais  vous,  spirituelle,  autant  que  douce  et  tendre, 
vous  lui  disiez  :  Voyez  !  le  petit  philosophe  !  .  .  . 
Ou  bien  le  poursuiviez  de  quelque  drogue  rose 
dont  vous  lui  poudriez  la  perruque  en  riant. 


Francis  Jammes  249 

Doux  asiles !     Douces  annees !     Douces  retraites ! 
Les  sifflets  d'aulne  frais  criaient  parmi  les  hetres  .  .  . 
Le  chevrefeuille  jaune  encadrait  la  fenetre  .  .  . 
On  recevait  parfois  la  visite  d'un  pretre  .  .  . 

Madame  de  Warens,  vous  aviez  du  go<at 
pour  cet  enfant  a  la  figure  un  peu  espiegle, 
manquant  de  repartie,  mais  peu  sot,  et  surtout 
habile  a  copier  la  musique  selon  les  regies. 

Ah  !  que  vous  eussiez  du  pleurer,  femme  inconstante, 

lorsque,  le  delaissant,  il  dut  s'en  retourner, 

seul,  1^-bas,  avec  son  pauvre  petit  paquet 

sur  I'epaule,  a  travers  les  sapins  des  torrents  .  .  . 

Almatde  d'Etremont  ou  VHistoire  d'une  Jeune  Fille 
Passionee  appeared  in  1901.  The  same  remarks 
which  apply  to  Clara  d'Ellebeuse  apply  to  this  story. 
It  is  too  lovely  to  be  garbled.  I  leave  it  to  those 
who  are  sufficiently  interested  to  read  it. 

Jammes'  next  volume  of  poems  was  published  in 
1902,  and  marks  the  end  of  an  epoch,  as  far  as  his 
poetry  is  concerned.  His  next  book  of  poems  was 
written  after  his  conversion,  and  the  change  is  very 
noticeable. 

Le  Triomphe  de  la  Vie  contains  only  two  poems : 
Jean  de  Noarrieu,  and  the  long  novel  in  verse, 
Existences.  Jean  de  Noarrieu  is  a  rich  farmer,  in 
love  with  his  own  waiting-maid,  who,  in  turn,  loves 


250  Six  French  Poets 

one  of  his  shepherds.  The  old  triangle !  Yes,  of 
course,  but  Jammes  is  not  engaged  with  literature, 
but  with  life  as  he  sees  it  in  the  little  villages  of 
the  Pyrenees.  Whatever  conventional  morality  is 
preached  there,  it  seems  certain  that  such  villages 
share  the  common  lot  of  rural  communities  and  do 
not  live  it.  At  any  rate,  Lucie,  the  servant,  per- 
mits her  master  to  make  love  to  her,  and  writes 
affectionate  letters  to  the  shepherd  then  on  the 
mountain  with  his  flocks,  at  the  same  time.  The 
conventional  novelist  or  poet  would  have  worked 
up  to  a  fine  tragedy.  Jammes  is  too  truthful  to  do 
any  such  thing.  Jean  is  careless,  but  not  bad  ;  Lucie 
is  unreliable,  but  not  vicious.  Autumn  comes,  and 
the  shepherd  returns  from  the  mountain.  Jean  sees, 
from  the  way  in  which  he  and  Lucie  greet  each  other, 
that  they  are  in  love ;  he  has  a  momentary  pang, 
but  in  the  end  does  the  sensible  thing  —  hands  the 
girl  over  to  her  lover.  The  unromantic  end  gives 
a  hint  that  Jean  may  console  himself  elsewhere. 

Not  much  of  a  story,  except  for  its  unusual  finish. 
But  what  is  really  interesting  in  the  poem  is  the 
long  succession  of  pictures  of  landscapes,  and 
places,  and  labours.  The  book  smells  of  hay,  and 
freshly  dug  earth,  and  the  sweet  breath  of  cows. 

The  poem  begins  with  this  passionate  cry  of  de- 
light at  the  passing  seasons  : 

Je  ne  veux  pas  d'autre  joie,  quand  I'et^ 
reviendra,  que  celle  de  I'an  passe. 


Francis  Jammes  251 

Sous  les  muscats  dormants,  je  m'assoirai. 

Au  fond  des  bois  qui  chantent  de  I'eau  fraiche, 

j'ecouterai,  je  sentirai,  verrai 

tout  ce  qu'entend,  sent  et  voit  la  for^t. 

Je  ne  veux  pas  d'autre  joie,  quand  I'automne 

reviendra,  que  celle  des  feuilles  jaunes 

qui  racleront  les  coteaux  ou  il  tonne, 

que  le  bruit  sovird  du  vin  nevif  dans  les  tonnes, 

que  les  ciels  lourds,  que  les  vaches  qui  sonnent, 

que  les  mendiants  qui  demandent  I'aumone. 

Je  ne  veux  pas  d'autre  joie,  quand  I'hiver 
reviendra,  que  celle  des  cieux  de  fer, 
que  la  fumee  des  grues  gringant  en  Fair, 
que  les  tisons  chantant  comme  la  mer, 
et  que  la  lampe  au  fond  des  carreatix  verts 
de  la  boutique  oti  le  pain  est  amer. 

Je  ne  veux  pas,  quand  revient  le  printemps, 
d'autre  joie  que  celle  de  I'aigre  vent, 
que  les  p^chers  sans  feuilles  fieurissant, 
que  les  sentiers  boueux  et  verdissants, 
que  la  violette  et  que  I'oiseau  chantant 
comme  un  ruisseau  d'orage  se  gorgeant. 

That  is  a  sort  of  invocation.  The  opening  of  the 
story  follows,  with  a  vivid  picture  of  Jean  de  Noar- 
rieu,  his  kitchen,  and  the  flitting  shadow  of  the 
Httle  servant,  Lucie: 


252  Six  French  Poets 

Comme  un  troupeau  en  fumee  et  laineux, 
le  ciel  marchait  sous  le  vent  pluvieux. 
La  pluie  luisait  sur  les  ardoises  bleues. 
Pres  du  portail  cria  un  char  a  boeufs. 
Un  coq  piqua  un  coq.     Et,  sur  le  vieux 
banc  de  noyer,  bailla  Jean  de  Noarrieu. 

On  entendit  remuer  la  servante. 
La  cheminee,  obscure  et  rougeoyante, 
flamba  plus  fort  sous  le  chaudron  luisant. 
Pres  du  bahut  noir,  graisse  par  le  temps, 
elle  eclaira  la  gourde  au  lisse  ventre, 
et  le  labrit  s'etira  en  baillant. 

Midi  sonna.     Le  lard  dans  le  poMon 

gresilla.     Et,  contre  le  landier  long, 

Lucie  brisa  avec  precaution 

deux  oeufs  de  poule  a  coque  rousse.     Et  Ton 

vit  se  gonfler  a  cote  du  lard  blond 

les  oeufs  qui  criaient  en  faisant  des  bonds. 

Here  is  a  little  vignette  of  plates  which  gives  the 
brightness  of  the  kitchen,  in  a  nutshell : 

Sur  le  dressoir  sont  les  belles  assiettes 
0X3.  sont  peints  des  oiseaux  omes  d'aigrettes, 
de  jaunes  fruits  et  des  fleurs  violettes. 
Lucie  remue,  dans  le  panier  d 'osier, 
I'argenterie  qui  sonne  toute  claire, 
change  I'assiette  et  sourit  a  son  maitre. 


Francis  Jammes  253 

Easter  comes,  and  the  poet  seems  to  shout  and  snap 
his  fingers  for  sheer  happiness : 

Et  Paques  fleuries  vint.     Alleluia ! 

Oh  !     Douce  fete  !     L'harmonium  gronda 

au  ventre  des  egUses.     Alleluia ! 

Le  vert  des  prairies  luisantes  se  dora. 

Les  grillons  crierent.     Alleluia ! 

Dans  la  nuit  bleue  luirent  les  lilas. 

Un  soir  beni  et  doux,  Alleluia, 
on  entendit  tout  a  coup  ces  lilas 
interpeller  lentement  les  etoiles. 
C'etait,  c'etait,  c'etait,  Alleluia, 
le  rossignol,  la  lune  ruissela, 
le  rossignol  en  fleurs.     Alleluia ! 

Renais,  nature !     Oh  !     Dans  le  jardin,  vois 
le  merisier  tout  blanc.     Alleluia ! 
Le  coeur  eclate  .  .  . 

Lucie  and  Jean  go  to  drive,  and  cross  a  river  by  a 
Httle  bridge : 

lis  passent  le  pont  leger  du  torrent 
d'un  vieux  petit  moulin  tourbillonnant 
tout  fait  de  mousse  et  de  rire  d'argent, 
d'un  torrent  joli  comme  en  un  roman, 
plein  de  cresson  et  de  soleil  tremblant 
et  de  cailloux  sur  des  caillotix  roulant. 


254  'S'^^  Frefich  Poets 


II  rebondit.     lis  voient  et  ils  entendent 
le  frisson  clair  dont  tremble  I'eau  courante. 
La  roue,  charg6e  de  mousse  transparente, 
ruisselle  et  brille,  comme  brille  au  printcmps, 
quelque  vallee  d'emeraude  et  d'argent 
dans  I'azur  creux  de  Bigorres  riantes. 

Here  is  a  hot  day  in  July.     They  are  cutting  the  corn  : 

Ce  fut  la  canicule  de  Juillet : 
les  stigmates  des  mais  s'argent^rent, 
et  leurs  6tamines  se  dessech^rent. 
Le  geste  rond  dont  on  etend  le  ble 
avec  la  faux  au  rateau  attach  de 
sonna  dans  le  tremblement  du  soleil. 

La  faux  qui  pousse  un  clair  gdmissement 

rasa  le  ble  et  les  liserons  blancs, 

la  salicaire  et  le  chardon  volant. 

La  chaleur  fit  crepiter  dans  les  champs 

la  paille  creuse,  aigue,  ronde  et  brisante. 

Et  dclata  la  cigale  grinjante. 

Son  cri  prit  feu,  soudain,  comme  la  poudre, 
se  continuant  d'arbre  en  arbre,  et  toute 
la  plaine  bleue  courb6e  sur  le  bl6  roux, 
a  I'heure  de  la  sieste  ou  rien  ne  bouge, 
fit  ce  siflflement  qu'entre  ses  dents  pousse 
un  enfant  qui  excite  un  chien  sur  la  route. 

Tout,  hors  ce  cri  dechirant,  fit  silence. 


Francis  Jammes  255 

I  have  no  words  to  describe  the  effect  those  three 
stanzas  have  on  me.  They  carry  me  back  to  terribly 
hot  days  of  my  childhood,  when  the  locusts  scraped 
and  sang  so  loud  they  seemed  to  make  it  hotter. 
Notice  the  wonderful  accuracy  and  beauty  of  say- 
ing that  the  grasshopper's  cry  "took  fire  like  powder 
and  ran  from  tree  to  tree."  Listen  to  this  descrip- 
tion of  a  quiet,  moonlit,  Summer  night : 

Dehors,  la  nuit  coupe  la  lune  claire. 
Les  arbres  sont  de  Tombre  plus  epaisse, 
line  ombre  si  epaisse  qu'on  dirait 
qu'ils  ont  en  eux  I'ombre  de  la  joumee, 
et  que  cette  ombre  en  eux  s'est  retiree 
pour  y  dormir  jusqu'a  la  matin6e. 

Quel  silence  d'amour  que  n'interrompt 
que  le  gresillement  du  crapaud  qu'on 
entend  sous  quelque  pierre  du  perron  .  .  . 
La  lune,  a  travers  le  catalpa,  monte. 
On  distingue  ses  continents  que  ronge 
tme  lumi^re  ou  s'endorment  des  songes  .  .  . 

Le  jar  din  prie.     On  sent  battre  le  coeur 
des  peches  dans  le  silence  de  Dieu. 
EUes  sont  duvetees  comme  la  lueur 
des  joues  eclatantes  de  ces  danseuses 
qui,  k  Laruns,  pareilles  a  des  fleurs, 
se  deploient  en  lentes  rondes  paresseuses. 

Les  fruits  pesent  da  vantage  la  nuit. 
La  nuit  semble  s'appuyer  siir  les  fruits. 


256  Six  French  Poets 

lis  s'inclinent  comme  Jean  et  Lucie. 
On  aime  en  tremblant.     Les  baisers  finissent 
plus  lentement,  comme  ces  rondes  rides 
que  sur  I'eau  font  naitre  et  mourir  les  brises. 

Et  les  6toiles  se  Invent  une  k  une. 
Et  Jean,  au  milieu  des  vitres  obscures, 
les  voit  briller,  blanches,  jaunes  et  pures 
Au  sud,  lentement,  se  trainent  des  nues 
gonflees  d'orage  qui,  parfois,  sur  la  lunc, 
passent  un  instant  puis  la  laissent  nue. 

What  a  genius  the  man  is ! 

Existences  is  a  sordid  enough  tale,  relieved  by  the 
poet  who  is  the  chief  character  in  it.  It  is  wonder- 
fully clever.  Far  and  away  the  best  thing  I  know 
for  the  realistic  treatment  of  a  story  in  verse.  And 
it  is  really  realistic  too,  for  that  there  is  beauty  in 
the  world  is  admitted  by  the  author  and  mentioned 
by  the  poet.  Most  "realistic"  novels  stoutly  deny 
it,  I  believe.  Again  in  Existences,  we  have  the 
sharply  etched  pictures,  and  they  are  all  I  am  going 
to  give  of  this  long  poem  of  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
two  pages.  Those  who  can  bear  the  somewhat  broad 
stating  of  malodorous  facts  will  find  the  novel  most 
interesting,  other  people  should  not  attempt  to  read 
it.  It  is  certainly  very  remarkable,  but  I  do  not 
say  that  it  is  pleasant. 

Here  is  a  description  of  the  utter  boredom  and 
monotony  of  a  little  town  : 


Francis  Jammes  257 

Comme  toutes  ces  boutiques  sont  paralleles  ! 

Toutes  les  petites  villes  sont  pareilles. 

A  droite  :  Epicerie.     A  gauche :  Teinturerie. 

A  droite  :  Gendarmerie.     A  gauche  :  Pharmacie. 

A  droite:  Auberge.     A  gauche  :  Megisserie. 

A  droite  :  Avoue.     A  gauche  :  Medecin. 

Puis  dix  ou  douze  maisons  bourgeoises,  avec  jardins 

pleins  de  feuillages  bleus  et  de  roses  tremieres 

et  la  chaleur  luisante  et  rose  de  lumiere. 

La-bas  ?     C'est  la  mairie  et  son  paratonnerre, 

et  la  place  carree,  d'ormeaux,  avec  des  chaines  .  .  . 

Zola  and  Jammes  are  the  only  men  who  have  known 
enough  about  life  to  mingle  poetry  with  their 
"reaHsm."     Witness  this: 

Qu'elle  est  belle  la  nuit  sur  la  petite  ville  ! 

Onze  heures  bleues !     Le  tulipier  de  ce  jardin 

sur  I'ombre  de  la  lune  est  plus  doux  que  n'est  douce 

la  ligne  des  coteaux  d'argent  bleu  dans  le  loin. 

Lune  claire !     On  ne  sait,  tant  il  fait  beau  et  clair, 

pourquoi  Ton  ne  vit  pas,  la  nuit,  comme  les  lievres. 

Personne  dans  la  rue.     Un  grillon  crie.     Un  chat 

tousse,  il  a  sans  doute  une  angina. 

Je  voudrais  ne  pas  me  coucher  dans  mon  lit,  m'etendre 

dans  un  champ,  et  nager  dans  cette  lueur  bleue. 

Le  Roman  du  Lievre  came  out  in  1903.  The  two 
earlier  stories  were  included  in  it,  and  the  notes  of 
Jammes'  journey  to  Algiers,  and  his  pilgrimage  to 
Les   Charmettes.     M.  Henri   Bordeaux  encountered 


258  Six  French  Poets 

him  there,  and  has  written  how  they  both  searched 
vainly  for  the  forgotten  grave  of  Madame  de  Warens 
in  the  Httle  cemetery  of  Saint-Pierre-de-Lemenc. 
There  are  many  other  things  in  Le  Roman  du  Lievre  ; 
among  them,  the  history  of  the  poor  little  hare 
himself,  chased  by  dogs,  and  killed  with  a  gun. 

Jammes  loves  animals,  as  I  said  before.  Since 
the  days  when  the  shooting  of  the  monkey  set  him 
trembling,  he  has  suffered  with  them,  and  for  them. 
His  dog  figures  often  in  his  poems.  There  are  many 
creatures  in  his  books :  cats,  kingfishers,  larks, 
butterflies.  He  has  sung  of  wasps,  their  humming, 
their  flight,  when  they  seem  like  golden  balls.  La 
Fontaine's  rabbit,  the  beasts  which  followed  Saint 
Francis  of  Assisi,  and  those  with  whom  Robinson 
Crusoe  consoled  himself  on  his  Island,  Jammes  has 
loved  them  and  written  about  them  all. 

As  a  child,  his  sensibility  was  extreme.  A  natural 
kindness  of  heart  caused  him  to  dower  even  minerals 
and  vegetables  with  a  nervous  system  like  his  own, 
and  in  consequence  he  suffered  profoundly  whenever 
he  thought  they  must  be  suffering.  "A  piece  of 
furniture  riddled  with  worms,"  he  says,  "a  gun  with 
a  broken  spring ;  a  swollen  drawer,  or  the  soul  of  a 
violin  suddenly  drawn  false,  such  are  the  sorrows 
which  agitate  me." 

Jammes'  is  a  heart  full  of  compassion.  For  every 
being,  for  every  thing.  Little  by  little,  his  pity, 
his  compassion,  his  love  for   the  simple,    beautiful 


Francis  Jammes  259 

side  of  the  Church  brought  him  back  to  it.  The 
conversion  was  finished  by  a  friend  of  his  (Claudel, 
I  think),  lately  returned  from  the  Far  East,  who 
worked  over  him  and  persuaded  him.  From  this 
moment,  there  is  a  change  in  Jammes'  work.  Cer- 
tain of  his  most  pronounced  characteristics  dis- 
appear. Has  it  changed  for  the  better  or  for  the 
worse  ?  I  thought  for  the  worse  until  his  last  book, 
Feuilles  dans  le  Vent,  came  out.  When  its  contents 
were  written  I  do  not  know,  but  they  are  no  whit 
inferior  to  any  of  the  best  things  he  has  done.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  Jammes'  Catholicism  is  a 
very  sweet  and  lovable  thing.  He  is  certainly 
cousin-german  to  Saint  Francis  in  his  whole  manner 
of  thinking. 

Pensee  des  Jardms  was  published  in  1906,  pre- 
ceded by  Pomme  d'Anis  ou  VHistoire  d'une  Jeune 
Fille  Infirme,  another  of  Jammes'  graceful,  fanciful 
stories  of  fifty  years  ago.  Perhaps  this  is  the 
loveliest  of  all  his  tales,  and  again  I  must  not  spoil 
it  by  touching  it  ill-advisedly. 

Pensee  des  Jardins  is  an  adorable  little  book  in 
both  poetry  and  prose,  full  of  animals  and  flowers. 
The  prose  part  consists  of  notes,  apparently  just 
jotted  down  for  safe  keeping.  One,  entitled  Sur  le 
Chat,  says:  "Le  Chat,  ce  chien  des  pauvres  .  .  ." 
and  that  is  the  whole  of  it.  In  another,  called 
Premieres  Joiirnees  de  Printemps,  is  this  enchanting 
line:   "J'aime  ce  qui  est  nacre,  ce  qui  est  phospho- 


26o  Six  French  Poets 

rescent  comme  un  jardin  d'Avril."  Here  is  another 
nice  thing:  "C'est  la  fragihte  des  hautes  branches 
qui  protege  la  fragilite  des  nids."  Pensee  des  Jar- 
dins  ends  with  seven  poems  called  "Some  Donkeys." 
Christ's  donkey  is  here,  and  Sancho  Panza's,  and 
Beatrice's ;  there  is  a  learned  donkey,  and  a  donkey 
who  has  been  beaten  ;  finally,  there  is  the  gardener's 
donkey,  so  packed  with  vegetables  that  he  looks  like 
an  ambulatory  garden. 

The  first  one  of  Jammes'  purely  poetic  books  to 
be  published  after  his  conversion  was  VEglise 
Habillee  de  Feuilles,  1906.  The  church  which  he 
here  describes  is  the  little  chapel  of  Noarrieu,  whose 
spire  dominates  three  valleys.  Jammes  has  said 
that  "prayer  is  the  sister  of  the  birds."  Here,  in 
this  little  church  hidden  in  the  leaves,  we  can  well 
understand  that  Jammes  found  the  sympathy  of 
surrounding  that  he  desired.  M.  Touny  Lerys,  a 
friend  of  his,  wrote  in  an  article  published  in  V Annee 
Poetiqiie:  "I  remember  one  evening  going  to 
church  with  Francis  Jammes,  and  seeing  him  pray. 
He  troubled  me  profoundly,  as  much  by  the  abandon 
of  his  body  as  by  the  expression  of  his  face,  and  I 
felt  that  he  was  not  really  there  any  more,  but  away, 
very  far  away  .  .  .  with  God."  One  poem  from 
VEglise  Habillee  de  Feuilles  will  show  what  he  has 
lost,  what  he  has  gained,  what  he  has  kept.  Per- 
haps there  is  rather  less  high  spirits,  and  more  tender- 
ness : 


Francis  Jammes  261 

La  paix  des  champs  s'etend  autour  de  la  chapelle. 

Et,  au  carrefour  poudreux,  parmi  les  avoines, 

les  menthes,  les  chicorees  et  les  aigremoines, 

se  dresse  un  grand  Christ  de  bois  creux  ou  les  abeilles 

ont  fait  leur  nid.     Et  on  peut  voir,  dans  le  soleil, 

aller,  venir,  ces  affairees  pleines  de  miel 

comme  des  lettres  noires  ecrites  dans  le  ciel. 

De  quoi  nourrir  son  Dieu  si  ce  n'est  pas  de  miel  ? 
Parfois  le  cantonnier  qui  casse  des  cailloiox 
leve  la  tete  et  voit  le  Christ,  le  seul  ami 
qu'il  ait  sur  cette  route  oii  palpite  Midi. 
Pour  casser  les  cailloux  I'ouvrier  est  a  genoux 
dans  I'ombre  de  ce  Christ  dont  le  flanc  est  vermeil. 
Et  tout  le  miel  alors  chante  dans  le  soleil. 

Le  poete  contemple  et  medite.     II  se  dit, 
devant  le  lent  frisson  des  champs,  que  chaque  epi 
est  du  peuple  de  Dieu  la  sage  colonic 
dont  chaque  grain  attend,  pour  etre  vivifie, 
que  des  grottes  du  Ciel  I'eau  se  soit  elancee. 
II  se  dit  que  ce  grain  desormais  va  pousser 
dans  I'azur  precieux  que  tout  approfondit 
et,  qu'image  du  Fils  de  Dieu,  ne  lui  aussi 
dans  une  grotte,  il  nourrira  ceux  qui  ont  faim. 
Et  I'epi  qui  naitra  a  son  tour  de  ce  grain 
aura  la  forme  d'un  clocher  dans  une  aurore. 

Another  book  of  poems,  Clair ieres  dans  le  Ciel, 
came  out  in  1906.  One  is  glad  to  find  in  it,  along 
with  the  new  tenderness,  all  the  old,  merry,  wise 
humour.     For  instance : 


262  Six  French  Poets 

L'ENFANT   LIT   L'ALMANACH  .  .  . 

L'enfant  lit  I'almanach  pres  de  son  panier  d'oeufs. 
Et,  en  dehors  des  Saints  et  du  temps  qu'il  fera, 
elle  peut  contempler  les  beaux  signes  des  cieiix : 
Chevre,  Taurean,  Belier,  Poissons,  et  csetera. 

Ainsi  peut-elle  croire,  petite  paysanne, 

qu'au-dessus  d'elle,  dans  les  constellations, 

il  y  a  des  marches  pareils  avec  des  anes, 

des  taureaux,  des  beliers,  des  chevres,  des  poissons. 

C'est  le  march e  du  Ciel  sans  doute  qu'elle  lit. 
Et,  quand  la  page  tourne  au  signe  des  Balances, 
elle  se  dit  qu'au  Ciel  comme  a  I'epicerie 
on  pese  le  cafe,  le  sel  et  les  consciences. 

Sometime  about  this  period,  the  poet  married.  But 
whom,  we,  the  public,  are  not  told  in  any  of  the 
books  about  Jammes.     But  one  day  the  little  church 

in  its  leaves 

.  .  .  allegrement  sonnait 
Car  la  fiUe  d'un  metayer  se  mariait. 

From  this  time,  Jammes'  work  takes  on  a  greater 
peace  and  contentment.  In  a  poem,  Le  Poete  et  sa 
Femme,  we  have  the  companion  picture  to  Un  Jour, 
La  Naissance  du  Poete,  La  Mort  du  Poete,  La  Jeune 
Fille  Nue,  and  Le  Poete  et  VOiseau.  But  how  very 
different  the  picture  is !  In  this  poem,  in  spite  of 
its  sad  ending,  there  is  a  sense  of  happiness  and 


Francis  Jammes  263 

satisfaction  pervading  the  whole.     The  poet  speaks 
to  his  wife  and  she  replies : 

Denis 
Que  le  vent  est  leger !     II  souleve  la  treille  .  .  . 
Reste  ainsi,  mon  amie,  dans  cette  moUe  veille  .  .  . 
Tantot  je  regardais  tes  bras  quand  tu  fanais  .  .  . 
lis  savent  purement  vers  ton  coeur  se  courber. 
Quelle  est  I'emotion,  quand  je  touche  tes  yeux, 
qui  fait  que  je  ne  pense  a  rien  d'autre  qu'a  eux  ? 
Quel  est  le  sentiment,  si  je  t'entends  chanter, 
qui  fait  que  c'est  ma  voix  qui  me  semble  empruntee  ? 
Qu'est-ce  qui  fait  que  quand  tu  poses  sur  mon  coeur 
ton  coeur,  je  nous  confonds  dans  la  meme  douceur  ? 

Lucie 

Que  tu  sais  me  parler  avec  des  mots  jolis ! 

Moi  qui  ne  sais,  helas  !  repondre  en  poesie, 

je  t'aime  cependant.     Si  je  ne  sais  te  rendre 

I'amour  en  vers  charmants,  crois  bien  que  je  sais  prendre 

toute  I'emotion  que  tu  veux  me  dormer, 

et  que  je  suis  a  toi  avec  simplicite. 

Beni  soit  le  travail  s'il  infiige  a  mes  bras 

la  courbe  que  tu  veux  et  qui  t'enlacera  .  .  . 

C'est  que  la  poesie  est  I'ame  de  la  vie. 

C'est  moi  qui  la  cultive  et  toi  qui  la  fleuris. 

Denis,  je  ne  suis  rien  que  la  pauvre  servante 

qui  ecoute  avec  foi  la  parole  savante. 

The  sequel  to  Le  Poete  et  sa  Femme  is  a  little  prose 
book,  Ma  Fille  Bernadette,  19 10,  which  records  the 


264  Six  French  Poets 

birth  and  early  babyhood  of  Jammes'  little  daughter. 
The  dedication  to  Marie  de  Nazareth,  Mhre  de  Dieu 
is  really  a  miracle  of  prose  beauty : 

A  MARIE  DE  NAZARETH,  MERE  DE  DIEU 

En  Vous  d^diant  cette  CEuvre,  je  Vous  dedie  aussi  ma  fille 
Bernadette  dont  la  patronne,  dans  mon  pays  natal  qui  est  la 
Bigorre  montagneuse,  Vous  a  vue. 

Les  vieux  botanistes  Vous  d^diaient  aussi  leurs  flores  et  on 
Vous  peignait  a  la  premiere  page,  debout,  Votre  fils  dans  les  bras, 
tout  entouree  de  lilas,  de  radices  bleues,  de  roses,  de  gloxinias, 
de  weigelias,  de  pivoines,  de  boules-de-neiges,  de  lis,  de  ces  mille 
fleurs  qui  ne  reviendront  plus  parce  qu'elles  ne  sont  plus  cueillies 
povir  Vous  par  les  robustes  reveuses  qui  se  levaient  au  matin  des 
myosotis  et  s'endormaient  au  couchant  des  capucines. 

Vous  ^tes  la  mere  de  tous  les  hommes  et  de  Dieu.  Vous  ^tes 
nee  k  Nazareth  aussi  simplement  que  ma  Bernadette  k  Orthez. 
On  a  dit  la  verite.  On  n'a  pas  invente  pour  Vous  tme  origine 
extraordinaire.  Je  Vous  tiens  dans  mon  coeur  comme  une  cer- 
titude. Je  suis  inintelligent,  c'est  possible,  mais  I'encens  de 
toutes  les  fleurs  creees  s'eleve  pour  Vous  de  la  terre  et  Vous  le 
changez  en  amour  comme  ce  rosier  grimpant  qui  s'elance  a  la 
cime  des  cedres. 

Vous  voyez  que  je  ne  sais  plus  bien  ce  que  j'ecris,  mais  ma 
pensee  s'attache  a  Vous  ainsi  que  cette  liane  fleurie  et  je  Vous 
dedie  cette  pauvre  oeuvre  comme  une  servante  son  pot  de  rese- 
das, et  il  tremble  dans  mes  mains  elevees. 

Little  Bernadette  is  followed  in  her  uprising  and 
downsitting.  She  cuts  her  first  tooth,  sees  her  first 
snow  storm,  is  vaccinated,  has  croup,  is  taught  to 


Francis  Jammes  265 

say  her  prayers.  And  all  with  an  ineffable  sweet- 
ness, delicacy,  and  charm.  The  father  loves  his 
little  daughter  so  much  that  the  pages  of  the  book 
seem  warm,  like  the  palm  of  a  hand. 

It  is  amusing  to  see,  however,  that  this  new  life 
which  has  entered  his,  only  makes  the  poet  hark 
back,  by  a  natural  process,  to  those  which  have 
preceded  them  both.  The  last  part  of  the  volume  is 
given  over  to  Bernadette's  ancestors,  and  here  we 
encounter  once  more  that  grandfather  who  played 
so  large  a  part  in  the  poet's  youthful  imagination, 
and  have  again  those  souvenirs  of  Guadeloupe 
which  hang  like  a  faint  perfume  over  the  poet's 
personality. 

Jammes'  last  book  of  poems  is  Les  Georgiques 
Chretiennes,  19 12.  How  much  of  a  Catholic  he  has 
become,  may  be  best  understood  by  quoting  in  full 
a  note  at  the  beginning  of  the  book.  "On  the 
threshold  of  this  book  I  confirm  that  I  am  a  Roman 
Catholic,  submitting  very  humbly  to  all  the  deci- 
sions of  my  Pope,  His  Holiness  Pius  X,  who  speaks 
in  the  name  of  the  True  God,  and  that  I  do  not  ad- 
here either  closely  or  at  a  distance  to  any  schism, 
and  that  my  faith  does  not  permit  any  sophism, 
neither  the  modernist  sophism,  nor  other  sophisms ; 
under  no  pretence  will  I  separate  myself  from  the 
most  uncompromising  and  most  loved  of  dogmas : 
the  Roman  Catholic  dogma  which  is  the  truth  come 
from  the  mouth  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  by  his 


266  Six  French  Poets 

Church.  I  reprove  in  advance  all  forestalling 
which  the  ideologues,  the  philosophers,  and  the 
reformers  would  wish  to  do  with  this  poem."  Les 
Georgiques  Chretiennes  is  a  whole  book  dealing  with 
the  agricultural  labours  of  a  year.  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  it  is  a  little  tedious.  The  following 
stanzas  are  interesting  as  showing  his  method,  not 
merely  in  this  poem,  but  in  many : 

C'est  ainsi  que  le  vers  dont  j'use  est  bien  classique, 
Degage  simplement  par  la  seule  logique. 

Apres  un  grand  combat  oii  j'avais  pris  parti 

Je  regarde  et  comprends  qu'on  s'est  peu  departi. 

Devenu  trop  sonore  et  trop  facile  et  liche 
Le  pur  alexandrin,  si  beau  jadis,  rS,bache. 

Le  vers  libre  ne  nous  fit  pas  tr^s  bien  sentir 
Ou  la  strophe  s'en  vient  commencer  et  finir. 

Mais  quelques  libertes,  quand  il  les  voulait  toutes, 
Ce  dernier  les  conquit.     EUes  ouvrent  la  route. 

Si  rares  qu'elles  soient,  elles  sont  bien  assez. 
Les  vers  seront  egaux  et  pas  assonances 

Comme  I'oiseau  repond  a  son  tour  a  I'oiselle 
La  rime  male  suit  une  rime  femelle. 

Quoique  les  vers  entre  eux  ainsi  soient  relies 
J'accepte  qu'un  pluriel  rime  k  un  singulier, 


Francis  Jammes  267 

Encor  tel  que  I'oiseau,  qui  du  del  prend  mesure, 
Le  rythme  ici  et  la  hesite  a  la  cesure. 

L 'hiatus  quelquefois  vient  a  point  rappeler 
Celui  qui  est  poete  au  plus  simple  parler. 

Alors  que  Ve  muet  s'echappe  du  langage 

Je  ne  veux  pas  qu'il  marque  en  mon  vers  davantage. 

Les  syllabes  comptees  sont  celles  seulement 
Que  le  lecteur  prononce  habituellement. 

Ayant  fixe  ce  bref  mais  s6r  art  poetique, 
Mon  inspiration  me  rouvre  son  portique. 

Jammes'  last  book  is  called  Feuilles  dans  le  Vent, 
and  was  published  in  1913.  It  contains  some  re- 
prints, among  others  Pomme  d'Anis,  and  some  of 
the  Notes  from  Pensee  des  Jardins.  But  the  interest- 
ing things  in  it  are  tw^o  stories,  UAuherge  des  Doideurs 
and  VAuherge  sur  la  Route.  This  is  from  the  latter 
tale,  and  it  is  in  prose,  but  I  submit  that  it  is  never- 
theless very  beautiful  poetry : 

Le  vent  courait  sur  la  soie  bleue  des  bles  et  la  ridait,  et  la 
crecelle  des  cri-cris  tremblait  comme  un  timbre  de  petite  gare. 
La  ligne  de  I'horizon  dormait,  etendue  au-dessus  des  epis,  et  les 
feuilles  des  chaumes  se  soulevaient  et  retombaient  telles  que  des 
oriflammes  de  mats  pour  sauterelles.  Parfois,  on  apercevait 
dans  le  ciel  un  nuage  comme  un  bosquet  d 'ombres  qui  se  serait 


268  Six  French  Poets 

enleve  de  la  colline,  et,  cependant  qu'il  glissait,  elle  s'illuminait, 
s'obscurcissait,  s'illuminait  a  nouveau. 

VAuberge  des  Douleurs  is  even  more  delightful,  but 
I  will  not  spoil  any  of  it  by  breaking  a  little  piece  off. 

Francis  Jammes  is  still  living  at  Orthez.  He  is 
still  in  the  prime  of  life :  forty-seven.  It  is  im- 
possible to  suppose  that  he  will  not  go  on  producing 
for  some  time  to  come.  He  has  already  had  a  great 
effect  upon  the  younger  generation,  and  if  there  do 
not  seem  to  be  any  poets  who  can  be  exactly  called 
his  disciples,  it  is  partly  because  he  has  never  sought 
disciples,  and  partly  because  the  best  part  of  him 
cannot  be  copied. 


PAUL  FORT 


PAUL  FORT 

In  preparing  this  chapter,  I  learnt  a  strange 
thing.  I  had  half  suspected  it  before,  but  now  I 
know  it  beyond  peradventure  of  a  doubt  —  the 
worid,  which  is  always  affected  by  exteriors,  carries 
that  principle  even  to  typography. 

It  so  happened  that  I  was  unable  to  get  a  biog- 
raphy of  Paul  Fort,  which  I  needed,  from  abroad. 
Hoping  they  might  have  it,  I  tried  the  Public 
Library.  I  was  not  surprised  that  that  particular 
volume  was  not  forthcoming,  but  I  was  surprised 
when  the  library  proved  to  contain  not  one  single 
volume  of  Paul  Fort. 

The  reason  that  this  is  so  strange  is  that  Paul 
Fort  is  the  one  poet  writing  in  French,  who  (as  soon 
as  he  becomes  known)  is  certain  to  share  with  Ver- 
haeren  the  unqualified  admiration  of  English-speak- 
ing people.  Both  in  matter  and  manner,  we  cannot 
fail  to  understand  him.  His  admiration  for  the 
English  poets  is  unbounded,  and  he  tells  us  that  he 
has  modelled  himself  upon  them. 

Are  his  books  hard  to  get,  are  they  few  and  far 
between  ?  —  you  will  ask.     Not  at  all.     In  the  past 

271 


272  Six  French  Poets 

nine  years,  he  has  pubHshed  sixteen  volumes  of  verse. 
They  are  the  ordinary  paper-covered  volumes  of 
modern  French  commerce,  lemon-hued  and  inviting, 
selling  at  the  usual  price  of  three  francs,  fifty  cen- 
times, and  they  are  for  sale  at  every  book-shop  in 
Paris. 

Then  what  is  the  matter  ?  —  you  will  ask  again. 
The  matter  (idiotic  though  it  may  sound)  is  a  ques- 
tion of  typography.  Paul  Fort  prints  his  poems  as 
prose.  That  is  the  obscuring  veil  which  keeps  him 
from  being  known.  You  print  words  in  a  line  — 
long  lines,  short  lines,  uneven  lines  (thank  Heaven ! 
you  are  permitted  so  much  liberty)  —  and  they  are 
instantly  recognized  as  poetry.  You  print  the  same 
lines  in  a  block,  like  prose,  and  you  are  undone.  If 
some  unwary  reader,  sitting  down  to  a  good  bit  of 
prose,  should  happen  to  read  it  aloud,  behold,  it  is 
poetry !  The  reader  is  confused,  then  angry. 
Things  are  not  what  they  seemed,  not,  in  fact, 
what  they  purported  to  be.  To  find  one's  self  in- 
veigled into  reading  poetry  when  one  thought  it  was 
prose,  when  by  every  typographical  sign  it  should 
have  been  prose,  'tis  a  charlatan's  trick,  rank  dis- 
honesty !  Or,  if  not  quite  that,  at  any  rate  it  makes 
one  feel  very  uncomfortable. 

Paul  Fort  says  that  he  has  sacrificed  his  popu- 
larity to  his  theory.  And  at  first  that  was  no  doubt 
true.  But  he  has  won  the  game  at  last,  in  his  own 
country.     He  has  been  elected  by  popular  suffrage 


Paul  Fort  273 

"Prince  des  Poetes,"  a  fact  which  I  shall  come  back 
to  later.  Only,  the  excellent  gentlemen  who  buy  the 
French  books  for  the  public  libraries  are  a  bit  be- 
hind the  times,  and  a  prose  which  jumps  at  one  in 
unexpected  rhymes  is  a  fearsome  thing  in  a  foreign 
language.  It  is  probably  the  same  all  over  England 
and  America,  and  so  this  most  universal  genius  of 
all  living  Frenchmen  remains  very  little  known  out 
of  France.  The  "Nineteenth  Century"  for  Decem- 
ber, 1 9 14,  contained  a  sympathetic  article  by  a 
young  English  poet  of  much  promise,  James  Elroy 
Flecker,  on  Fort,  recommending  him  to  his  coun- 
trymen. A  pathetic  interest  attaches  to  this  article, 
in  that  its  author  was  already  dying  when  it  ap- 
peared, and  his  subsequent  death  makes  it  the  last 
w^ord  he  felt  it  important  to  say,  the  last  effort 
worth  making. 

Paul  Fort  classes  himself  as  a  Symholiste  ;  why,  it 
is  a  little  hard  to  say,  except  that  he  regards  Sym- 
bolisme  as  another  term  for  liberty.  And  Fort  is 
fairly  intoxicated  with  the  idea  of  liberty.  But  he 
employs  his  liberty  for  quite  other  purposes  than 
those  of  the  real  Symbolistes.  Paul  Fort  is  the 
modern  man.  Exteriorizing,  full  of  vitality  and 
vigour,  and  "la  joie  de  vivre."  I  know  no  one  except 
Sam  Weller  who  seems  to  me  so  bubblingly  alive. 
He  positively  bounces  with  delight  through  poem 
after  poem.  He  is  intensely  interested  in  every- 
thing, and  a  good  motto  for  his  sixteen  volumes 


274  'S'z'a;  French  Poets 

would  be  Stevenson's 

The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
I  am  sure  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings. 

Nature,  people,  books,  all  fill  him  with  enthusiastic 
interest,  and  to  all  he  gives  an  equal  share  of 
himself,  having  the  power  to  devote  himself  en- 
tirely to  whichever  one  he  is  occupied  with  for  the 
moment. 

More  than  that,  he  is  so  genuinely  sympathetic, 
that,  almost  unconsciously  it  would  seem,  his  style 
changes  with  his  subject.  He  is  master  of  what 
Matthew  Arnold  would  have  called  "the  grand 
style,"  but  he  is  also  past-master  of  a  hail-fellow- 
well-met  diction  to  sing  the  preoccupations  of  the 
Breton  sailors.  Not  even  Byron  has  so  fine  an  irony 
as  he ;  and  Henri  de  Regnier  in  Les  Vacances  d'un 
Jeune  Homme  Sage  has  not  caught  the  naive  sim- 
plicity of  adolescence  any  better,  any  more  deli- 
cately, than  he  has  done  in  Paris  Sentimental. 

Let  me  illustrate.  Here  are  two  poems  which  have 
for  subject  nothing  at  all  but  the  extreme  happiness 
of  being  alive.  The  "great  intoxication,"  as  it  is  to 
him. 

LA  GRANDE  IVRESSE 

Par  les  nuits  d'ete  bleues  ou  chantent  les  cigales,  Dieu  verse 
sur  la  France  une  coupe  d'etoiles.  Le  vent  porte  k  ma  l^vre  un 
go<at  du  ciel  d'ete !    Je  veux  boire  a  I'espace  fraichement  argente. 


Paul  Fort  275 

L'air  du  soir  est  pour  moi  le  bord  de  la  coupe  froide  ou,  les 
yeux  mi-fermes  et  la  bouche  goulue,  je  bois,  comme  le  jus  press6 
d'une  grenade,  la  fraicheur  etoil^e  qui  se  repand  des  nues. 

Couche  sur  un  gazon  dont  I'herbe  est  encor  chaude  de  s'etre 
prelassee  sous  I'haleine  du  jour,  oh !  que  je  viderais,  ce  soir, 
avec  amour,  la  coupe  immense  et  bleue  oii  le  firmament  rode ! 

Suis-je  Bacchus  ou  Pan?  je  m'enivre  d'espace,  et  j'apaise  ma 
fievre  a  la  fraicheur  des  nuits.  La  bouche  ouverte  au  ciel  oil  gre- 
lottent  les  astres,  que  le  ciel  coule  en  moi !  que  je  me  fonde  en  lui ! 

Enivres  par  I'espace  et  les  cieux  etoiles,  Byron  et  Lamartine, 
Hugo,  Shelley  sont  morts.  L'espace  est  toujours  la;  il  coule 
iUimit^;  k  peine  ivre  il  m'emporte,  et  j 'avals  soif  encore! 

The   second   is   one   of   those    Chansons   for  which 
Fort  is  so  famous. 

LE  CIEL  EST  GAI,   C'EST  JOLI  MAI 

La  mer  brille  au-dessus  de  la  haie,  la  mer  brille  comme  una 
coquille.     On  a  envie  de  la  pScher.     Le  ciel  est  gai,  c'est  joli  Mai. 

C'est  doux  la  mer  au-dessus  de  la  haie,  c'est  doux  comme 
une  main  d'enfant.  On  a  envie  de  la  caresser.  Le  ciel  est  gai, 
c'est  joli  Mai. 

Et  c'est  aux  mains  vives  de  la  brise  que  vivent  et  brillent  des 
aiguilles  qui  cousent  la  mer  avec  la  haie.  Le  ciel  est  gai,  c'est 
joli  Mai. 


276  Six  French  Poets 

La  mer  pr^sente  sur  la  haie  ses  frivoles  papillonnees.  Petits 
navires  vont  naviguer.     Le  ciel  est  gai,  c'est  joli  Mai. 

La  haie,  c'est  les  profondeurs,  avec  des  scarabdes  en  or.  Les 
haleines  sont  plus  vilaines.     Le  ciel  est  gai,  c'est  joli  Mai. 

Si  doux  que  larme  sur  la  joue,  la  mer  est  larme  sur  la  haie  qui 
doucement  descend  au  port.     Mais  on  n'a  gu^re  envie  de  pleurer. 

—  "Un  gars  est  tombe  dans  le  port!"  —  "Mort  dans  la 
mer,  c'est  jolie  mort."  Mais  on  n'a  guere  envie  de  pleurer.  Le 
ciel  est  gai,  c'est  joli  Mai ! 

I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  do  among  these 
sixteen  volumes.  I  do  not  know  where  to  begin. 
To  note  them  chronologically  is  of  no  value,  for  Paul 
Fort  is  not  one  of  the  poets  who  grows  old.  He  re- 
news himself  perpetually,  but  the  renewal  is  only 
to  greater  vigour,  farther  delight.  And  this  is  per- 
haps natural,  for  in  spite  of  the  immense  amount  of 
work  he  has  done,  Fort  is  still  a  young  man.  Yet 
that  does  not  always  follow.  Usually,  a  man  would 
seem  to  have  only  a  certain  amount  in  him.  Some- 
times he  matures  slowly  and  begins  to  produce  late. 
I  have  heard  it  said  that  Shakespeare  was  thirty 
before  he  began  to  write,  and  we  know  that  the 
painter  Gauguin  was  forty  before  he  touched  a 
brush.  Daniel  Webster,  too,  was  some  thirty  odd 
before  he  made  his  first  remarkable  speech. 


Paul  Fort  277 

The  contrary  is  often  true:  a  man  whose  creative 
power  exhausts  itself  in  early  youth.  Are  we  so 
sure  that  Keats  was  unlucky  to  die  young  ?  The 
dismal  and  academic  "  Hyperion,"  so  praised  by  the 
conventional  critic,  makes  us  pause  and  consider 
the  question.  In  our  own  time,  William  Butler 
Yeats  is  a  case  in  point.  His  excellent  and  brilliant 
work  was  all  done  in  his  twenties.  Since  then  he 
has  been  like  a  haunted  man,  pursued  by  the  ghost 
of  his  own  poetry. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Paul  Fort,  characteristic  of 
the  robustness  of  his  nature,  physical  and  mental 
alike,  that,  beginning  young,  he  should  still  be 
writing  with  unimpaired  vigour. 

Paul  Fort  was  born  in  Rheims  on  the  first  of 
February,  1872.  In  a  pathetic  letter,  written  re- 
cently, he  tells  that  he  was  born  right  opposite  the 
Cathedral  —  "la  Cath6drale  assassinee,"  as  he  calls 
it.  What  the  destruction  of  the  Cathedral  must 
have  meant  to  him,  we  can  faintly  understand, 
loving  it,  as  we  must,  only  as  a  beautiful,  strange 
thing.  In  a  poem  written  since  the  burning  of 
Rheims,  he  tells  as  much  as  he  can  of  its  place 
in  his  childhood.  He  tells  of  his  father  crying  out 
at  the  first  sign  of  real  notice  in  his  baby  eyes, 
"  II  voit !  il  voit !  il  voit !"  and  turning  him  toward 
i'eglise  sublime;"    how,  as  he  grew 


"  1'^, 


.  .  .  elle  naquit  pour  moi,  reelle,  grande,  immense  et  r§v^ 
a  la  fois. 


278  Six  French  Poets 


Elle  naquit  pour  moi,  devinee  par  mes  yeux,  un  matin  de 
printemps  au  cri  des  hirondelles.  Mes  menottes  ont  cru  la 
prendre  au  bleu  cieux !  Renassant  chaque  aurore  elle  m'etait 
fidele,  tout  habitee  de  saints,  de  rois  et  de  heros,  et  d'anges  k 
mi -vol,  comme  un  arbre  d'oiseaux. 

Grand  jouet  de  mon  ame,  O  frangaise  foret  de  pierres,  et  vos 
tours,  mes  immense  hochets,  vous  etes  demeures  le  seul  Jeu  de 
mon  ame,  avec  les  trois  hauts  porches,  en  triangle  de  flamme, 
et  dessus  eux  la  Rose  ou  Ton  voit  voltigee  des  pigeons  becque- 
tant  les  reflets  passagers. 

Puis  quand  je  suis  enfin  venu,  ma  Cathedrale,  meler  un  cerf- 
volant  aux  ailes  de  tes  anges,  que  j'ai  de  tous  mes  cris  fait  sonner 
ton  parvis  et,  les  cheveux  au  vent  et  poursuivant  mes  cris,  en- 
tour  e  tes  vieux  murs  des  cent  jeux  de  I'enfance  .  .  . 

The  poem  is  too  long  to  quote  entire,  but  is  it  sur- 
prising that  it  has  this  stanza,  constantly  repeated 
as  a  refrain? 

Monstrueux  general  baron  von  Plattenberg,  si  je  vous  dois  ce 
chant  d'amour  a  mon  eglise,  je  vous  donne  en  retour,  bien  qu'im- 
mortalisent,  le  soufflet  de  poetes  et  I'echafaud  du  Verbe,  —  mais 
je  tiens  magazin  de  haine  consacree  a  tous  les  Allemands  que 
j'ai  pu  rencontrer. 

Who  were  Fort's  parents,  and  how,  and  why,  he 
went  to  Paris,  the  lack  of  the  volume  I  have  men- 
tioned makes  it  impossible  for  me  to  say.     But  to 


Paul  Fort  279 

Paris  he  went,  and  there,  at  the  incredibly  early  age  of 
eighteen,  he  founded  a  httle  theatre,  the  Theatre  d' Art. 
It  was  a  protest  against  the  naturahstic  generation 
who  held  sway  over  the  Theatre  Libre,  and,  oddly 
enough,  this  audacious  undertaking  had  a  certain 
success.  What  are  we  to  make  of  a  youth  of  eight- 
een who,  alone,  almost  without  resources,  con- 
ceives such  an  idea,  and  carries  it  through  ?  Fort's 
actors  were  engaged  to  receive  no  wages  ;  his  scenes 
were  painted  for  him,  presumably  by  enthusiastic 
and  unpaid  friends,  among  them  being  Gauguin  and 
Maurice  Denis ;  and  plays  were  submitted,  plays  in 
manuscript  and  quite  unactable,  which  were  acted 
nevertheless.  For  Fort  stuck  at  nothing  in  pursuit 
of  his  theory ;  what  he  wished  to  do  should  be  done, 
and  thanks  to  his  energy  and  brains,  was  done. 

Fort  was  possessed  of  the  idea  that  the  old  and 
excellent,  even  if  forgotten,  should  be  mixed  with 
the  new.  Everything  which  was  intrinsically  worthy 
of  dramatic  representation  should  have  its  turn.  On 
they  went  —  pell-mell.  An  assortment  of  a  kind 
to  make  the  ordinary  and  experienced  theatrical 
manager  faint  dead  away. 

The  Thedtre  d'Art  mounted  Shelley's  "Cenci,"  of 
all  extraordinary  ventures ;  and,  perhaps  not  quite 
so  queer,  but  still  sufhciently  unusual,  the  "Dr. 
Faustus"  of  Christopher  Marlowe.  In  both  these 
pieces.  Fort  took  a  part  himself.  It  seems  as  though 
at  this  time  he  expected  to  become  an  actor. 


28o  Six  French  Poets 

For  modern  plays,  the  Theatre  d'Art  gave  Les  Uns 
et  Les  Autres,  by  Verlaine  ;  VIntruse  and  Les  Aveu- 
gles,  by  Maeterlinck  ;  La  Voix  du  Sang  and  Madame 
La  Mort,  by  Rachilde  ;  Theodat,  by  Remy  de  Gour- 
mont ;  Les  Flaireurs,  by  Van  Lerberghe ;  it  even 
gave  Le  Concile  Feerique,  by  Signoret ;  and  Le 
Corbeau,  by  Mallarme.  How  it  gave  the  latter, 
unless  it  was  merely  read,  possibly  in  costume,  I 
fail  to  understand,  as  Le  Corbeau  is  simply  a  trans- 
lation of  Poe's  "Raven."  But  nothing  seems  to 
have  been  unattemptable  to  Fort,  who  went  so  far 
as  to  dare  to  produce  an  adaptation  of  the  first  book 
of  the  "  Iliad." 

Gourmont  says  in  his  Promenades  Litter  aires,  that 
Sarcey  enjoyed  these  performances  so  much  that 
he  never  missed  one,  and  that  he  wrote  happily  in 
an  article  on  the  subject:  "These  studio-farces  took 
until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  finish."  From 
this  remark  it  is  quite  obvious  that  Fort's  public 
was  composed  of  young  and  enthusiastic  students  of 
the  arts  like  himself.  But  he  certainly  had  a  pub- 
lic; and  when  the  Thedtre  d'Art  moved  from  the 
Marais  to  Montparnasse,  and  from  Montparnasse 
to  Montmartre,  the  public  went  with  it. 

The  Thedtre  d'Art  broke  up  in  1893.  Why,  I  do 
not  know,  possibly  from  lack  of  funds,  that  most 
important  factor  in  all  theatrical  enterprises,  even 
when  the  actors  work  for  nothing  and  the  perform- 
ances last  until   two  o'clock  in   the  morning.     Or 


Paul  Fort  281 

possibly  Fort  had  discovered  that  acting   was  not 
his  vocation. 

In  1890,  the  year  he  started  his  theatre,  Fort  had 
pubHshed  a  Httle  play  of  inconsiderable  importance, 
La  Petite  Bete.  This,  you  see,  was  just  in  the  hey- 
day of  his  preoccupation  with  the  theatre.  But 
three  years  as  an  actor  and  manager  taught  him 
that  the  theatre  offered  no  scope  to  his  particular 
talents.  Description,  in  which  he  excels,  has  no 
place  in  theatrical  writing.  Fort  definitely  aban- 
doned it  for  the  free  medium  of  verse,  pure  and 
simple. 

There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  the  years  in  the 
theatre  were  of  the  utmost  value  to  Fort  as  a  poet. 
A  keen  dramatic  instinct  he  must  always  have  had, 
but  the  practical  training  of  this  instinct  gave  him 
an  extraordinary  mastery  over  the  difficult  art  of 
dramatic  verse.  Dramatic  verse  in  contradistinction 
to  drama.  One  of  the  reasons  for  the  dullness  of 
most  narrative  poems  is  that  their  authors  do  not 
understand  the  manipulation  of  the  dramatic. 
Dullness  is  the  one  unpardonable  sin  in  all  the  arts, 
but  in  the  theatre  it  is  suicidal.  A  play  must  "get 
over,"  or  it  is  damned.  Now  this  quality  of  "get- 
ting over"  Fort  has  to  an  eminent  degree.  Let  me 
illustrate  by  two  selections  from  Le  Roman  de  Louis 
XI.  The  first  one  is  where  the  king,  having  heard 
of  the  death  of  his  natural  son,  goes  incognito  and 
by  night  to  find  out  if  the  rumour  is  true : 


282  Six  French  Poets 

JOACHIM 

La  nuit  glisse  epaisse  et  froide  dans  Paris.  Deux  ombres 
dans  I'ombre,  deux  petites  ombres  maigres  s'agitent  frileusement, 
puis  glissent  dans  la  nuit. 

—  Doux  sire,  j'ai  jure.     Cette  nuit,  nous  partons. 

—  C'est  bien,  suis-moi,  suis-moi. 

De  petites  ruelles  en  petites  ruelles,  deux  petites  ombres 
maigres  s'agitent  dans  le  froid,  —  puis  s'arretent. 

La,  devant  une  masure  a  demi  enterree,  une  voix,  une  petite 
voix  aigre-douce,  aigrelette,  une  petite  voix  que  mouillent  des 
sanglots : 

—  Je  ne  suis  lion,  ni  loup,  ni  renard,  je  suis  un  homme,  Croy. 
Frappe  a  cette  porte,  Croy !  Ici,  bien.  Appelle :  Dame  Si- 
monne  des  Chaines ! 

—  Dame  Simonne  des  Chaines ! 

—  Bien.  Ecoute,  ecoute !  .  .  .  Demande  s'il  n'est  pas  mort, 
hier,  quelqu'un  chez  elle. 

—  Dame  Simonne  !     Est-il  mort,  hier,  quelqu'un  ici  ? 

—  Helas,  doux  seigneur !  vous  le  savez  done,  vous  ?  Mon 
fils  Joachim,  mon  fils,  la  nuit  demiere. 

—  Je  ne  suis  lion,  ni  loup,  ni  renard,  je  suis  un  homme.  Croy, 
reviens,  soutiens-moi !  Joachim !  .  .  .  Croy !  je  ne  suis  lion, 
ni  loup,  ni  renard,  je  suis  tous  trois.  Croy,  je  suis  un  homme. 
Adieu,  6  petit  etre !  .  .  .  Joachim !  Joachim !  AUons,  bien ! 
partons.  Dame  Simonne  me  fut  .  .  .  Dame  Simonne  m'etait 
.  .  .  Je  suis  un  homme,  Croy,  je  pleure  un  petit  etre  .  .  . 
Joachim !     Helas !  .  .  .  mon  petit  enfant  .  .  . 


Paul  Fort  283 


La  nuit  glisse  epaisse  et  froide  dans  Paris,  deux  petites  om- 
bres maigres  butent,  glissent,  s'agitent.  Oh  !  quelle  petite  voix 
aigrelette,  aigrelette  .  .  .     Oh !   ses  petits  cris  dechires. 

The  second  is  a  gay  account  of  Louis,  with  his  gentle- 
men and  their  attendant  mistresses,  fishing  in  the 
Seine : 

LA   PECHE   MIRACULEUSE 

La  nouvelle  etait  si  charmante,  —  un  oncle  mort  si  a  propos  ! 
—  mon  doux  petit  Louis  XI  voulut  bien  la  feter,  mais  intime- 
ment,  en  gentille  societe. 

Maitre  Tristan,  tout  imagination,  conseilla  une  partie  dans 
I'herbe,  et,  comme  il  clignait  de  ses  yeux  roux  malins  :  —  "Com- 
pris,  dit  le  roi,  tu  n'es  qu'un  vaurien." 

Le  lendemain  matin,  sous  le  paradis  bleu,  gais  et  contents, 
mon  doux  petit  Louis  XI,  Tristan  I'Ermite  et  leurs  folles  amantes, 
Simonne  des  Chaines  et  Perrette  du  Tresor,  s'en  vinrent  ta- 
quiner  le  goujon  de  Seine,  avix  pieds  en  roseaux  de  la  Tour  de 
Nesle. 

Maitre  OHvier,  puceau,  faisait  le  guet  sur  la  berge,  a  longues 
enjambees  froissant  I'herbe.  II  bayait  aux  comeilles  aver 
melancolie :   la  chute  de  Buridan  occupait  son  esprit. 

Simonne  des  Chaines,  ame  et  cceur  Ues  au  coeur  et  a  I'ame 
de  son  roi  bien-aime,  comme  un  lys  d'eau  penchant  sur  un 
vieux  nenuphar,  penchait,  sur  I'epaule  rapee  de  son  amant,  son 
cou  de  neige,  son  front  de  lait,  son  petit  nez  de  velours  blanc; 


284  Six  French  Poets 

et,  de  temps  en  temps,  le  gracieux  roi  Louis  de  France  lui  deman- 
dait  un  asticot.  Alors,  c'etait  avec  un  si  grand  charme  qu'elle 
en  puisait  un,  dans  una  petite  boite  verte,  c'etait  avec  un  charme 
si  troublant  qu'elle  le  presentait  au  roi,  tout  fretillant,  que 
Louis  ne  se  tenait  plus  de  lui  baiser  I'oreille  (non  point  a  1 'asti- 
cot, mais  a  Simonne  des  Chaines) ,  voire  de  lui  chuchoter  amour- 
eusement  ces  mots:  "M'amie,  vous  assisterez  aux  Etats 
eneraux. 


Maitre  Olivier,  puceau,  faisait  le  guet  sur  la  berge,  a  longues 
enjambees  froissant  I'herbe.  II  bayait  aux  corneilles  avec 
melancolie :   la  chute  de  Buridan  occupait  son  esprit. 

II  regardait,  d'un  ceil  inattentif,  certain  maitre  Villon,  fleur 
de  berge  s'il  en  fut,  courant  dans  les  roseaux  apres  les  libellules 
et  qui,  parfois,  toumait  des  yeux  pleins  d 'anarchic  vers  ces 
bourgeois  pechant  la-bas,  et  leurs  amies.  Maitre  OHvier, 
puceau,  avait  I'esprit  ailleurs  ...  A  peine  vit-il,  dans  les  ro- 
seaux, maitre  Villon  se  devetir.  A  peine  murmura-t-il,  comme 
on  murmure  en  reve :  "Sans  doute,  ce  monsieur  nu  ne  m'est 
pas  inconnu." 

Et  Tristan  n'attrapait  rien.  Et  le  roi  n'attrapait  rien.  Les 
asticots  filaient,  filaient  .  .  .  Et  Frangois  Villon,  prenant  une 
pleine  eau,  soufflait  aux  poissons,  tout  en  faisant  la  planche: 
"Vive  la  liberte !   ne  vous  laissez  pas  prendre." 

0  *****  * 

—  "Paix  !  cria  le  roi,  ou  je  manque  ce  turbot !" 

—  "Un  turbot,  seigneur,  est  un  poisson  de  mer  .  .  .  risqua 
timidement  la  tendre  Simonne.     J 'en  ai  vendu,  avec  ma  m^re, 


Paul  Fort  285 

au  grand  marche  Saint-Honore,  du  temps  de  ma  virginite."  — 
"Un  poisson  de  mer?  .  .  .  He,  c'est  bien  pour  cela  que  je  I'ai 
manque!"   repondit  le  roi  sans  se  deconcerter. 

—  "Le  temps  passe  ne  revient  pas,"  fredonnait  Perrette  en 
ajustant  ses  bas.  —  "Oui!  la  jeunesse  n'a  qu'un  temps,"  en- 
tonna  Tristan,  avec  conviction.  Alors,  la  timide,  la  tendre 
Simonne  roucoula  sur  un  air  encore  peu  connu:  "Voici  vingt 
ans  que  j'ai  perdu  ma  mere  ..."  II  n'en  fallait  pas  plus, 
Tristan  fondit  en  larmes,  —  tandis  que  le  roi,  tout  en  pechant 
du  vent,  chantait  k  tue-t^te :  "Non !  mes  amis,  non,  je  ne  veux 
rien  etre !  .  .  ." 

Et  Tristan  n'attrapait  rien.  Et  le  roi  n'attrapait  rien.  Les 
asticots  filaient,  filaient  .  .  .  Et  les  goujons  spirituels,  battant 
des  ouies,  applaudissaient.  —  ("Applaudissaient,"  sans  doute, 
n'est  qu'une  image.  Mais  sait-on  bien  ce  qui  se  passe  dans 
I'eau?) 

Aux  pieds  en  roseaux  de  la  Tour  de  Nesle,  les  deux  com- 
m^res,  le  roi  et  le  bourreau  chantaient,  en  choeur,  comme  des 
oiseaux.  Et  les  goujons,  autour  des  bouchons,  valsaient,  val- 
saient  agreablement. 

Maitre  Olivier,  puceau,  faisait  le  guet  sur  la  berge  .  .  . 

Soudain,  Perrette  pouffa  de  rire  dans  sa  jupe !  Mon  doux 
petit  Louis  XI,  levant  sa  ligne  avec  ardeur,  venait  d'accrocher 
un  martin-pecheur.  —  Tristan  dit:  "Un  gage!"  Simonne: 
Poisson  vole !  et  maitre  Olivier  s'arr^ta,  tout  net,  sur  une  en- 
jambee. 


286  Six  French  Poets 


—  "Par  m'ame!  je  me  serai  trompe,  se  dit  Frangois  Villon 
nageant  entre  deux  eaux.  Au  lieu  d'un  goujon  pecher  un  oiseau 
.  .  .  Ce  bourgeois  n'est  pas  depourvu  de  lyrisme!" 

Et  les  goujons,  autour  des  bouchons,  valsaient,  valsaient 
agreablement. 

The  theatre  definitely  abandoned,  Fort  turned  to 
literature,  and  published  a  number  of  little  books  of 
verse,  got  up  something  like  chap-books,  very  slim, 
and  very  unpretentious.  The  first  one,  Plusieurs 
Choses,  appeared  in  1894,  followed  the  same  year  by 
two  others,  Premieres  Lueurs  sur  la  Colline  and 
Monnaie  de  Fer.  The  next  year  came  others,  Pres- 
que  les  Doigts  aux  Cles  and  II  y  a  Id  des  Cris.  But 
it  was  not  until  1896,  that  he  started  what  may  be 
considered  as  his  life  work  in  the  publication,  by  the 
indefatigable  Mercure  de  France,  of  the  first  volume 
of  his  Ballades  Frangaises.  It  contained  all  the 
poems  already  published,  with  new  ones  added,  and 
was  a  large  book  of  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages. 
Those  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages  tell  the  story 
of  Fort's  life,  his  enormous  fecundity,  his  over- 
fecundity,  I  fear  it  must  be  admitted.  Fort  is  like 
some  kinds  of  fishes,  who  spawn  an  incredible  num- 
ber of  eggs,  of  which  some,  at  least,  are  bound  to 
survive.  And  in  Fort's  case.  It  is  astonishing  how 
many  are  perfect,  and  fashioned  to  resist  all  the 


Paul  Fort  287 

accidents  of  time.     Particularly  is  this  true  In  these 
early  volumes. 

All  Fort's  succeeding  volumes  have  been  Ballades 
Frangaises.     No  matter  how  various  the   subjects, 
he  has  given  them  all  the  same  generic  title.     And 
it  is  an  excellent  title,  and  hitches  them  all  together 
into  the  soul  of  France  better  than  anything  else 
could  do.     For  this  most  English  of  French  poets 
is  at  the  same  time  the  very  embodiment  of  France. 
One  of  his  critics  (and  to  my  mind  at  once  the  most 
sprightly  and  the  most  illuminating  of  the  lot,  and 
their  names  have  been  legion)  says:    "Paul  Fort  is 
a  mask,  and  I  know  well  what  is  underneath  :   it  is 
the  familiar  demon  of  the  soil  of  France.  ...     In- 
trepid innovator  and  firm  partisan  of  freedom,  Paul 
Fort  is  nevertheless  the  most  traditional  of  our  poets. 
The  demon  of  French  soil,  I  have  just  said,  lives  in 
him.     Disdainful  of  expected  rhythms  and  domes- 
ticated sentiments,  he  has  taken  poetry  again  at  its 
beginning,  from  the  moment  when  it  spouts  out  of 
the  earth,  when  it  is  still  hot  and  moving,  full  of 
dissolved  salts  and  living  germs.     He  has  listened  to 
the  instinctive  songs  in  which  the  soul  of  the  race 
shivers ;  which  are  born,  so  to  speak,  of  themselves, 
each    like    the    others,    clumsy    and    sincere,    with 
indistinct  onomatopoeias,   with    cadences   balanced 
like  peasant  rounds  danced  in  sabots,  with   rough 
and  new  words,  impregnated  by  the  fat  earth.     It 
is    there,    the   raw,    inexhaustible    treasure,    which 


288  Six  French  Poets 

germinates  through  the  length  of  the  centuries  in 
epics  and  odes,  in  epigrams,  in  romances,  in  legends, 
in  tales  full  of  bonhomie  and  in  fables  full  of  roguish- 
ness.  Therould  comes,  and  of  this  lyrism  the  Chan- 
son de  Roland  is  made ;  Rabelais  comes,  and  of  this 
spirit  Pantagruel  is  composed.  One  can  understand 
everything,  say  everything,  sing  or  chatter  in  every 
fashion,  when  one  is  in  France." 

Singing  and  chattering  in  every  fashion  —  that  is  a 
paraphrase  of  Paul  Fort.  His  Choix  de  Ballades 
Franqaises,  a  modest  little  tome  of  five  hundred  and 
sixty-nine  pages  into  which  he  has  condensed  his 
sixteen  ample  volumes,  is  divided  under  headings. 
These  headings,  invented  by  himself,  will  give  a 
more  comprehensive  idea  of  the  many  kinds  of  his 
work  than  any  arbitrary  list  which  I  could  make 
would  do.  They  are  :  Hymnes  ;  Chansons  ;  Lieds  ; 
Elegies  ;  Poemes  A  ntiques  ;  Poemes  Marins  ;  Odes 
et  Odelettes  ;  Romans  ;  Petites  Epopees  ;  Fantaisies 
d  la  Gauloise ;  Complaintes  et  Dits ;  Madrigaux  et 
Romances  ;  Epigrammes  a  Moi-meme. 

Now,  I  think  it  is  time  to  speak  of  Fort's  versifi- 
cation. That  new  and  original  versification  which 
has  caused  so  much  commotion  among  the  critics. 
That  strange  and  bafifling  style  to  which  Fort  says 
he  has  sacrificed  his  books. 

It  is  very  hard  for  an  English  reader  not  to  smile 
at  the  earnestness  and  great  length  with  which  all 
Fort's  commentators   deal   with   the  subject.     We 


Paul  Fort  289 

must  constantly  remind  ourselves  that  French  Is 
an  artificially-made  language,  and  is  hedged  about 
with  any  number  of  set  rules.  In  France,  there  Is  a 
right  and  a  wrong  in  pronunciation,  there  is  a  correct 
construction  of  sentences,  and,  above  all,  there  is 
an  exact  system  of  versification. 

We,  in  the  English-speaking  countries,    are  con- 
stantly bemoaning  the  fact  of  the  absence  of  stand- 
ards, and  the  consequent  decay  of  the  language.     A 
decay,  let  it  be  whispered,  which  has  been  loudly 
wailed    over    ever    since    the    days    of    Chaucer. 
Whether  we  lose  most  or  gain  most  by  our  freedom 
to  talk  and  write  as  we  please  will  probably  always 
be  a  disputed  question.     Each  system  has  Its  ad- 
vantages.    In  France,  everybody  can  write  at  least 
correctly,  everybody  who  makes  a  pretence  of  being 
educated,  that  Is.     In  England,  and  even  more  In 
America,  the  language  Is  open  to  the  enrichment  of 
Interpolated   words    and    forms.     (The    picturesque 
and    vitalizing    influence    of    American    slang    has 
hardly  yet  been  noticed  by  students ;  some  day  we 
shall    have   monographs    upon    the   subject.)     The 
corresponding   disadvantages   of   each    system    are, 
that  although  in  England  and  America  there  is  a 
flexible,    strong,  and    excessively  rich    language    to 
make  use  of,  only  a  handful  of  writers  have  sufficient 
taste  and  training  to  manipulate  It  and  bring  out  Its 
possibilities.     English  is  not  really  Inferior  to  French 
at  any  point  except  In  its  paucity  of  rhymes,  and 


290  Six  French  Poets 

occasionally  in  its  lack  of  shaded  meanings.  But, 
as  a  rule,  the  skill  of  English  (and  here  I  would  in- 
clude American)  writers  is  behind  that  of  the  French. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  very  clarity  and  precision 
of  the  French  tongue  makes  it  difficult  for  it  to 
change  with  sufficient  speed.  Life,  in  France,  is 
ahead  of  its  official  language.  Hence  the  poet  who 
attempts  any  innovation,  no  matter  how  obvious 
the  advantage  of  the  change  may  be,  has  to  fight  a 
long  series  of  battles  before  he  is  admitted  to  have 
proved  his  point. 

The  vers  libristes  had  hardly  been  accorded  per- 
mission to  exist,  in  the  minds  of  the  crowd,  before 
Paul  Fort  appeared  with  a  still  greater  innovation. 
Briefly  it  was  this  :  —  He  alternated  prose  and  verse 
at  will,  going  from  one  to  the  other  without  any 
transition,  sometimes  changing  from  one  to  another 
in  the  same  stanza.  To  make  this  possible,  he 
printed  his  poems  as  prose,  and  the  change  into 
rhyme  only  became  evident  when  the  poem  was 
read ;  with  the  greater  number  of  readers,  un- 
doubtedly, this  change  was  never  noticed  until  the 
poem  was  read  out  loud.  He  never  attempted  to 
write  vers  litre,  nor  is  he  to  be  classed  among  the 
vers  libristes.  His  verse  is  almost  always  the  alex- 
andrine, pure  and  simple ;  sometimes,  however,  his 
lines  are  of  eight  syllables  or  of  ten.  In  very  few 
cases  has  he  departed  from  either  strict  prose  or 
strict  verse.     Only,  he  says  that  he  follows  the  col- 


Paul  Fort  291 

loqulal  pronunciation  of  the  He  de  France,  which 
means  really  Paris.  In  other  words,  he  practically 
suppresses  the  mute  e,  after  the  fashion  of  conversa- 
tion, instead  of  counting  it  in  the  traditional  manner 
of  French  verse  (and  often  pronouncing  it  too,  some- 
times drawing  it  out  in  the  disagreeable  mannerism 
of  the  Comedie  Frangaise).  The  only  thing  which  I 
can  compare  this  to  in  English,  is  the  very  bad  and 
foolish  tradition  of  singing  English,  in  which  "wind" 
is  pronounced  "winde,"  and  "pretty"  —  "pritty," 
and  the  consonants,  for  some  unknown  reason,  are 
blurred  so  that  nothing  is  sharp.  Even  this  is  not 
quite  the  same  thing,  as  the  English  singing  habit 
has  nothing  to  recommend  it,  whereas  the  French 
poetic  tradition  is  at  least  based  upon  a  bygone 
pronunciation. 

What  seriously  troubles  Fort's  critics  is  that  he 
does  not  always  suppress  the  mute  e.  In  a  case 
where  one  cannot  safely  count  out  twelve  feet,  and 
be  sure,  by  that,  whether  the  e  is  to  be  suppressed 
or  not,  such  uncertainty  is  very  confusing.  Again, 
to  the  English  sense,  this  does  not  seem  to  matter. 
M.  Louis  Mandin,  in  his  Etude  sur  les  "Ballades 
Franqaises,''  points  out  that  "if  our  traditional 
prosody  is  based  upon  the  rigid  fixity  of  the  num- 
ber of  syllables,  other  idioms  leave  to  many  of  their 
vocables  the  faculty  of  contracting  or  distending 
themselves  according  to  the  movement  of  the 
rhythm."     And    he    cites    as   examples,   our    word 


292  Six  French  Poets 

"wandering,"  which  may  be  either  two  or  three 
syllables  to  suit  the  metre;  or  again,  "Heaven," 
which  may  be  either  one  or  two. 

Fort's  mute  e's  are  to  be  counted  or  not  according 
to  the  flow  of  the  verse  when  pronounced  in  the 
usual  Parisian  fashion.  The  only  sensible  way  to 
read  Fort's  poems  is  to  read  them  ahead  as  they  are 
written.  So  done,  they  will  at  once  fall  into  their 
natural  rhythm,  be  it  prose,  be  it  verse.  Fort  has 
such  an  excellent  sense  of  rhythm,  of  cadence,  that 
you  may  safely  trust  him  to  bring  out  what  he 
wishes  in  his  poems ;  only  read  him  as  he  is  written, 
he  will  do  the  rest.  Here  is  a  very  little  poem.  It 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  that  Fort  has  done, 
and  one  of  the  best  known  ;  it  is  also  one  of  the  very 
few  that  are  written  in  lines.  It  is,  as  you  see,  in 
regular  alexandrines : 

LA  FILLE  MORTE  DANS  SES  AMOURS 
Cette  fille,  elle  est  morte,  est  morte  dans  ses  amours. 

lis  I'ont  portee  en  terre,  en  terre  au  point  du  jour. 

lis  Font  couchee  toute  seule,  toute  seule  en  ses  atours. 

lis  I'ont  couchee  toute  seule,  toute  seule  en  son  cercueil. 

lis  sont  rev'nus  gaiment,  gaiment  avec  le  jour. 


Paul  Fort  293 

lis  ont  chante  gaiment,  gaiment :  "Chacun  son  tour. 

"Cette  fiUe,  elle  est  morte,  est  morte  dans  ses  amours." 

lis  sont  alles  aux  champs,  aux  champs  comme  tous  les 
jours  .  .  , 

Here  is  a  stanza  from  another  poem,  Richard 
Cosur  de  Lion,  which  is  quite  uneven,  the  lines  being 
ten,  eleven,  or  twelve  feet  long.  (Perhaps  I  should 
repeat  here,  what  I  think  I  mentioned  in  the  first 
essay,  that  French  being  an  unaccented  language, 
they  have  not  our  variety  of  feet,  all  of  which  are 
based  upon  accent.  In  French  prosody,  a  foot  is  a 
syllable,  so  that  the  alexandrine,  which  is  a  line  of 
twelve  feet,  is  simply  a  line  containing  twelve 
syllables.) 

This  is  the  uneven  stanza : 

Non,  me  faut  aimer,  me  faut  trainer  ma  peine,  pleurer  contre 
la  pierre  ici,  que  voici,  ou  j'inscrivis  son  nom  entre  un  h61ian- 
theme,  et  cet  oeillet  couleur  de  cceur.  —  Suis  transi !  —  Je  vais 
herborisant  au  clair  de  la  lune,  cherchant  sous  la  mousse  I'herbe 
qui  rajeunit. 

For  one  who  is  not  a  Frenchman  and  therefore  in 
love  with  the  alexandrine,  I  think  this  last  quota- 
tion far  more  interesting  than  regular  verse.  The 
unexpected  popping  up  of  the  rhymes  is  pungent 
and  delightful,  and  the  assonances  give  a  very  rich 


294  -^^^  French  Poets 

effect  and  are  most  satisfying.  One  cannot  help 
wishing  that  Fort  had  gone  farther  into  this  irregular 
verse,  but  he  has  stuck  very  faithfully  to  his  original 
plan,  given  in  the  preface  to  Le  Roman  de  Louis  XI : 
"I  have  sought  a  style  which  could  pass,  at  the  will 
of  the  emotion,  from  prose  to  verse  and  from  verse 
to  prose,  rhythmic  prose  furnishing  the  transition. 
The  verse  follows  the  natural  elisions  of  the  language. 
It  is  presented  as  prose,  all  difficulty  of  elision  dis- 
appearing in  this  form  .  .  .  Prose,  rhythmic  prose, 
and  verse,  are  only  a  single  instrument,  graduated." 
Paul  Fort  is  not  seeking  a  new  verse  form,  and  when 
he  stumbles  upon  the  possibility  of  one,  as  in  the 
quotation  I  have  just  read,  he  passes  it  by  as  a  mere 
accident  of  no  importance.  What  he  is  seeking  is 
to  connect  prose  and  verse  more  closely  than  they 
have  ever  been  connected  before,  and  that  he  has 
succeeded  in  doing  in  an  extraordinarily  satisfactory 
manner. 

But  here  I  am,  fallen  into  the  usual  pit  which 
betrays  all  Fort's  commentators.  I  am  devoting 
far  too  much  space  to  the  metrical  side  of  his  work. 
Let  me  scramble  out  as  best  I  can  by  the  aid  of  this 
admirable  quotation  from  M.  Octave  Beliard,  the 
critic  whom  I  cited  above.  "When  one  of  the  genii 
of  free  space,"  he  says,  "trembling  and  intoxicated 
with  life,  falls  into  the  midst  of  our  humanity,  he 
begins  by  giving  himself  air,  somersaulting  over 
barriers,    upsetting   categories,    throwing   our   poor 


Paul  Fort  295 

symmetrical  ideas  arranged  like  ninepins,  one  on 
top  of  the  other.  He  puts  life  where  there  was  im- 
mobility and  silence.  We,  careful  busybodies,  had 
pasted  tags  everywhere :  This  is  a  theatre  and  this 
is  a  novel.  .  .  .  This  is  verse.  .  .  .  This  is  prose. 
.  .  .  Paul  Fort  unfastens  the  labels,  plays  unplay- 
able plays  at  his  theatre,  rhymes  novels,  puts  prose 
into  verse  and  verse  into  prose,  vibrates  to  every 
wind,  chatters  like  a  brook,  makes  poetry  of  every- 
thing, and  amuses  himself  like  a  god.  .  .  .  And 
suddenly  all  these  volatile,  wandering  syllables 
unite  themselves  into  the  regular  verses  of  an  epic, 
as  if,  recreation  time  finished,  the  hour  of  hymn  and 
prayer  had  rung." 

The  first  volume  of  Ballades  Frangaises  contained 
a  little  of  everything.  It  was  divided  into  six  books 
as  follows:  Book  I:  The  Sea.  The  Bells.  The 
Fields.  The  Hamlet.  Book  H :  The  Seasons. 
Night.  A  Book  of  Love.  The  Fields.  The  Road 
to  Atre.  The  Storm.  Book  HI :  Orpheus  Charm- 
ing the  Animals.  Endymion.  Indian  Bacchus,  etc. 
Louis  XI,  Curious  Man.  Heavy  Blows  of  the  Door 
Knocker.  The  Birth  of  Coxcomb.  Book  IV :  IVIad- 
men  and  Clowns.  Death  and  Satan.  Peasants  and 
Knights.  Nobles  and  Kings.  Book  V :  First  Steps. 
There  are  Cries  There.  Book  VI :  The  Young 
Ladies  of  my  Dreams.     The  Friend  without  Sin. 

It  seems  as  if  in  this  first  book.  Fort  had  set  out 
to  cover  everything  in  the  universe.     Let  us  begin 


296  Six  French  Poets 

with  one  of  the  simplest  songs  in  the  volume : 

LA  RONDE 

Si  toutes  les  filles  du  monde  voulaient  s'donner  la  main,  tout 
autour  de  la  mer  elles  pourraient  faire  une  ronde. 

Si  tous  les  gars  du  monde  voulaient  bien  etr'  marins,  ils 
f'raient  avec  leurs  barques  un  joli  pont  sur  I'onde, 

Alors  on  pourrait  faire  une  ronde  autour  du  monde,  si  tous  les 
gens  du  monde  voulaient  s'donner  la  main. 

Here  is  another,  describing  a  peasant  wedding, 
with  the  refrain  of  the  traditional  Chanson  Populaire  : 

LA  NOCE 

Ah !  que  de  joie,  la  Mte  et  la  musette  troublent  nos  coeurs 
de  leurs  accords  charmants,  voici  venir  les  gars  et  les  fiUettes,  et 
tous  les  vieux  au  son  des  instruments. 

Gai,  gai,  marions-nous,  les  rubans  et  les  comettes,  gai,  gai, 
marions-nous,  et  ce  joli  couple,  itou ! 

Que  de  plaisir  quand  dans  I'eglise  en  fete,  cloche  et  clochettes 
les  appellent  tertous,  —  trois  cents  clochettes  pour  les  yeux  de 
la  belle,  un  gros  bourdon  pour  le  coeur  de  I'epoux. 

Gai,  gai,  marions-nous,  les  rubans  et  les  comettes,  gai,  gai, 
marions-nous,  et  ce  joli  couple,  itou ! 


Paul  Fort  297 

La  cloche  enfin  tient  nos  langues  muettes.  Ah  !  que  de 
peine  quand  ce  n'est  plus  pour  nous  .  .  .  Pleurez,  les  vieux,  sur 
vos  livres  de  messe.     Qui  sait  ?  bientot  la  cloche  sera  pour  vous  ? 

Gai,  gai,  marions-nous,  les  rubans  et  les  comettes,  gai,  gai, 
marions-nous,  et  ce  joli  couple,  itou ! 

Enfin  c'est  tout,  et  la  cloche  est  muette.  Allons  danser  au 
bonheur  des  epoux.  Vive  le  gars  et  la  fiUe  et  la  fete  !  Ah  !  que 
de  joie  quand  ce  n'est  pas  pour  nous. 

Gai,  gai,  marions-nous,  les  rubans  et  les  comettes,  gai,  gai, 
marions-nous,  et  ce  joli  couple,  itou ! 

Que  de  plaisir,  la  flute  et  la  musette  vont  rajeunir  les  vieux 
pour  un  moment.  Voici  danser  les  gars  et  les  fiUettes.  Ah ! 
que  de  joie  au  son  des  instruments ! 

It  is  amusing  to  note  that  this  is  one  of  the  Ballades 
des  Cloches. 

Robert  de  Souza  in  his  Poesie  Populaire  says : 
"Rondes  et  pastourelles,  aubades,  romances  et  guil- 
lonees,  berceuses  et  brunettes,  ballades  narratives, 
complaintes  d'amour,  chansons  de  fetes  et  de  metiers, 
qwerziou  et  soniou  bretons,  lieds  ou  saltarelles,  il 
semble  qu'aucun  des  modes  lyriques  populaires  ne 
soit  absent  du  livre  de  M.  Fort."  And  he  quotes 
this  Breton  song  with  its  fantastic  refrain : 


298  Six  French  Poets 

ET  YOU  YOU  YOU 

Et  you,  you,  you,  c'est  le  pecheur  qui  meurt,  et  you,  you,  yu, 
et  toute  la  mer  dessus. 

Et  you,  you,  you,  c'est  la  bergdre  qui  pleure,  et  you,  you,  ya, 
c'est  Tamour  qui  s'en  va. 

Et  you,  you,  you,  c'est -y  la  mer  qui  b^le,  et  you,  you,  yon, 
ou  c'est-y  les  moutons  ? 

Et  you,  you,  you,  les  plaisirs  sont  au  ciel,  et  you,  you,  you, 
les  nuages  par-dessous. 

But  Paul  Fort  has  other  peasant  songs.    Songs 
with  overtones  of  sadness  : 


LA  VIE 

Au  premier  son  des  cloches :  "C'est  Jesus  dans  sa  creche  .  .  ." 

Les  cloches  ont  redouble :   "0  gue,  mon  fiance ! " 
Et  puis  c'est  tout  de  suite  la  cloche  des  trepasses. 
Songs  tinged  with  a  gay  irony : 

LES  BALEINES 

Du  temps  qu'on  allait  encore  aux  baleines,  si  loin  qu'^a  fai- 
sait,  mat'lot,  pleurer  nos  belles,  y  avait  sur  chaque  route  un 


Paul  Fort  299 


Jesus  en  croix,  y  avait  des  marquis  cou verts  de  dentelles,  y 
avait  la  Sainte-Vierge  et  y  avait  le  Roi ! 

Du  temps  qu'on  allait  encore  aux  baleines,  si  loin  qu'ga 
faisait,  mat'lot,  pleurer  nos  belles,  y  avait  des  marins  qui  avai- 
ent  la  foi,  et  des  grands  seigneurs  qui  crachaient  sur  elle,  y  avait 
la  Sainte-Vierge  et  y  avait  le  Roi ! 

Eh  bien,  a  present,  tout  le  monde  est  content,  c'est  pas  pour 
dire,  mat'lot,  mais  on  est  content !  .  .  .  y  a  plus  d'  grands  sei- 
gneurs ni  d'Jesus  qui  tiennent,  y  a  la  republique  et  y  a  I'presi- 
dent,  et  y  a  plus  d'baleines ! 

All  the  poems  which  I  have  quoted,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Les  Baleines  and  La  Vie,  are  from  this  first 
volume,  and  Fort  has  never  done  anything  better 
in  this  line.  I  cannot  leave  it  without  quoting  one 
more,  from  the  section  "  Madmen  and  Clowns." 
It  is  irony,  pure  and  simple,  keen  and  flickering 
like  a  sword-blade : 

LES  DEUX  CLOWNS 

—  Synthetic  Clown-Clown,  hip,  hip,  toumez ! 

—  Six  pirouettes  bleu  blanc  blanc  bleu,  voila  le  Ciel !  six 
pirouettes  bleu  vert  vert  bleu,  voila  la  Mer !  six  pirouettes  vert 
jaune  jaune  vert,  c'est  le  Desert !  six  pirouettes  or  jaune  jaune 
or,  c'est  le  Soleil ! 

—  Bravo,  bravo,  un  p'tit  bravo,  messieurs.    Analytic  Clown- 


300  Six  French  Poets 


Clown,  a  vous,  toumez ! 

Soit.  Messieurs,  decomposons,  suivez-moi  bien :  Violet, 
deux  pirouettes,  Indigo,  trois  pirouettes,  Bleu,  cinq  pirouettes, 
Vert,  deux  pirouettes,  Jaune,  trois  pirouettes,  Orange,  cinq 
pirouettes,  Rouge,  dix  pirouettes.  Total :  trente  pirouettes. 
Attention,  Messieurs!  guignez  Tare  de  Noe  .  .  .  Deux  trois 
cinq,  deux  trois  cinq  dix,  rrrrrrran ! 

—  Cessez,  Analytic,  cessez,  assez!  II  va  se  rompre  .  .  . 
Dieu!  ...     Ah! 

Synthetic  se  tord,  puis  dans  la  sciure  du  cirque  inscrit  d'un 
doigt  profond  cette  sombre  epitaphe : 

Ci-Git 

ANALYTIC 
> 

ce  clown  qu'on  disait  sage 

—  tres  fol 

et  mort  de  rage 

de  n'avoir  pu  toumer  dans  un  orage. 

The  next  volume  of  Ballades  Franqaises  was  called 
Montague,  Foret,  Plaine,  Mer,  and  was  published  in 
1898.  Fort  has  as  great  a  love  for  scenery  as 
Francis  Jammes,  again  and  again  he  delights  him- 
self with  describing  it.  Only,  unlike  Jammes,  he 
loves  to  paint  towns  as  well  as  countrysides.  He 
notices  all  the  changes  of  light  and  shadow,  all  the 
effects  of  trees,  and  houses,  and  steeples,  and  always 


Paul  Fort  301 

with  that  intoxication  of  dehght.  Nature  strikes 
him  and  sets  him  singing.  "Tout  mon  corps,"  he 
cries,  "est  poreux  au  vent  frais  du  printemps.  Par- 
tout  je  m'infinise  et  partout  suis  content."  Spring 
fills  him  with  an  almost  uproarious  happiness :  "  Ren- 
dez-vous  des  muguets  !  rendez-vous  des  coucous  !  et 
de  toutes  les  fleurs  dont  les  prairies  abondent,  au  son 
de  la  trompette  a  Phebus.  Rendez-vous  d'abeilles 
et  d'oiseaux  !     Un  empire  se  fonde." 

Here  is  the  little  town  of  Senlis  in  the  morning 
mist : 

SENLIS  MATINALE 

Je  sors.  La  ville  a-t-elle  disparu  ce  matin?  Ou  s'est-elle 
envolee  ?  Par  quel  vent,  dans  quelle  tie  ?  Je  la  retrouve,  mais 
n'ose  plus  etendre  les  mains.  Senlis  est  vaporeuse  comme  une 
mousseline. 

Moi,  dechirer  Senlis?  prenons  garde.  Ou  est-elle?  Toits  et 
murs  sont  un  transparent  reseau  de  brume.  Notre-Dame  livre 
a  I'air  sa  gorge  de  dentelle,  son  cou  si  fin,  son  sein  leger  couleur 
de  lune 

ou  bat  I'heure  irreelle,  que  seuls  comptent  les  anges,  tant 
I'echo  s'en  etouffe  dans  I'oreiller  du  ciel  fait  des  plimies  douce- 
ment  etendues  de  leurs  ailes,  ou  Dieu  repose  un  front  qui  vers 
Senlis  se  penche. 

This  is  a  curious  paysage,  considered  in  the  light 
of  recent  events ;  it  appeared  in  1909,  in  his  tenth 


302  Six  French  Poets 

volume : 

HORIZONS 

Du  cote  de  Paris,  mais  vers  Nemours  la  blanche,  un  bou- 
vreuil  ce  matin  a  chante  dans  les  branches. 

Du  cote  d'Orleans,  vers  Nemours  envolee,  au  coeur  du  jour 
I'alouette  a  chante  sur  les  bids. 

Du  c6te  de  la  Flandre,  au  crepuscule  d'or,  loin  de  Nemours 
la  pie  a  cache  son  trdsor. 

Le  soir,  criant  vers  Test,  I'Allemagne  et  la  Russie,  la  troupe 
des  corbeaux  quitta  ce  pays-ci. 

Mais  dans  mon  beau  jardin  par  Nemours  abritd,  toute  la 
nuit  d'dtoiles,  Philomene  a  chante ! 

The  third  volume  of  the  Ballades,  Le  Roman  de 
Louis  XI,  came  out  also  in  1898.  On  the  fly-leaf, 
Fort  has  put:  "I  have  wanted  to  write  a  book  of 
'good  humour.'  I  call  it  'The  Novel  of  Louis  XI,' 
which  means  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  the  exacti- 
tude of  a  severe  historian." 

What  can  one  say  of  such  a  book  as  Louis  XI? 
It  is  one  of  Fort's  most  original  and  amusing  works. 
The  picture  of  the  King,  with  his  hat  bordered  by 
medals  and  images,  occupied  with  his  prayers,  and 
suddenly  stooping  to  pick  a  chestnut  or  two  out  of 
the  fire,  is  inimitable.     We  see  him  dictating  to  his 


Paul  Fort  303 

barber  "certalnes  petites  lois."  We  see  him  fish- 
ing, as  in  the  passage  I  quoted  a  Uttle  while  ago. 
We  see  him  riding  "along  the  white  road  whistling 
with  larks,  by  the  side  of  the  thorn  hedges  covered 
with  linen  hung  out  to  dry."  We  see  him  sleeping 
peacefully  on  his  horse,  "entends-tu  le  coucou,  ma- 
lurette?  —  Non,  je  dors."  We  see  him  at  the  siege 
of  Beauvais.  And  truly  this  same  siege  of  Beauvais 
is  one  of  the  most  astounding  things  in  all  literature. 
This  account  of  the  things  the  besieged  threw  down 
upon  the  besiegers,  and  the  noise  they  made  in  fall- 
ing, out-Marinettis  Marinetti  on  his  own  ground  : 

Et  lorsqu'avec  ses  gens  il  grimpait  a  I'echelle,  que  leur  jetait- 
on,  dites-moi  ?  —  des  poulets  ?  non  pas,  —  des  radis  ?  du  beurre  ? 
vous  Stes  dans  I'erreur,  —  des  agneaux  ?  des  boeufs  ?  plus 
sou  vent !  —  des  f  raises  a  la  cr^me  ?  des  melons  ?  des  salsifis  ? 
fi !  vous  vous  moquez !  —  On  leur  jetait  du  plomb  fondu  dans 
les  prunelles;  sur  le  nez,  sous  le  nez,  des  torches  enflammees 
(comme  roses  ecloses,  bonnes  a  humer) ;  et  par  tout  le  corps  un 
joyeux  pele-mele  de  meubles,  de  paves,  d'ardoises,  de  boulets, 
de  crachats,  d'os  ronges,  d'ordures  varices,  de  petits  clous,  de 
grands  clous,  d'enclumes,  de  marteaux,  de  casseroles,  de  plots, 
de  papinettes  en  fer,  d'assiettes,  de  fourchettes,  de  poeles,  de 
cuillers,  d'encre,  de  graisse  et  d'huile  bouillantes,  que  sais-je? 
de  tombeaux,  de  margelles,  de  cloisons,  de  gouttieres,  de  toits, 
de  clochers,  de  cloches,  de  clochettes  qui  tintinnabulaient  gra- 
cieusement  sur  les  t^tes. 

Que  leur  jetait-on  encore  pour  ne  point  mentir  ? 

Ah !  Maints  objets  moult  contondants,  tranchants,  affiit^s, 


304  Six  French  Poets 

affiles,  en  boule,  en  douille,  grenus,  cornus,  en  scie,  en  soc,  de  terre, 
de  tole,  de  pierre  de  taille,  de  fer,  d'acier,  arques,  herisses,  tordus, 
confus,  tout  mal  fichus,  moussus,  rouilles,  erailles,  en  lanieres, 
en  coin,  en  creux,  en  crible,  en  croix,  en  eric,  en  croc,  sonnants, 
crissants,  sifflants  et  ronflants,  faisant  humph,  ouf,  louf,  pouf, 
bring,  sring,  tringle,  balaam,  bottom,  betting,  batar,  arara,  rara- 
boum,  bul,  bul,  breloc,  relic,  relaps,  mil,  bomb,  marl,  broug,  batacl, 
mirobol,  pic,  poc,  quett,  strict,  pac,  diex,  mec,  pett,  sec,  sic, 
soif,  flic,  f aim,  brie,  broc,  brrrrrr  .  .  .,  qui  enfongaient  les  cranes, 
elargissaient  les  nez,  tricotaient  les  oreilles,  ecarquillaient  les 
bouches,  faisaient  voler  les  dents,  les  doigts,  les  coudes,  les  bras, 
les  mentons,  les  pommettes,  mariaient  les  yeux,  en  dedaignaient 
I'omelette,  desossaient  les  6paules,  abrutissaient  le  thorax,  de- 
courageaient  les  coeurs,  mettaient  I'intrus  au  ventre,  scrutaient 
une  fesse  puis  I'autre,  en  tiraient  faux  boyaux,  de  cuisses  cuis- 
settes,  de  rotules  billes  et  developpaient  les  pieds  ou  coupaient 
I'homme  en  cinq,  six,  sept,  voire. 

Oui-da,  encore,  que  leur  jetait-on  ? 

Des  cadavres,  des  injures,  des  merdailles  et  des  filches? 

Bien  mieux !  (frissormez  avec  moi)  —  des  maisons.  Et  peu 
s'en  fallut  que,  par-dessus  la  ville,  on  ne  leur  jetat  la  villa 
entiere ! 

Here  I  must  skip  over  four  volumes  and  quote 
what  I  believe  to  be  Fort's  masterpiece.  It  is  in 
the  same  genre  as  Louis  XI,  but  where  one  is  diffused 
throughout  a  long  novel,  the  other  is  condensed  into 
eight  pages.  Eight  pages  in  which  is  contained  the 
whole  Middle  Ages.     I  give  the  poem  entire. 


Paul  Fort  305 

HENRI  III 
I 

Les  rideaux  des  croisees  sont  clos.  Les  meubles  doraient. 
Parfois  le  lit  royal  pousse  un  long  gemissement.  C'est  le  bois 
qui  se  plaint,  c'est  I'ame  du  vietix  chene.  Ecoutez.  .  .  .  Aussi 
bien,  cela  gemit  a  peine.  Ecoutez.  L'atre  obscur  se  ranime  et 
frissonne.  Trois  petites  flammes  bleues  dansent  sur  le  foyer, 
jetant  de  grands  adieux  aux  murs  fleurdelises. 

Plus  rien.     L'obscurite  chasse  les  quatre  murs. 

Aussitot,  un  eclat  du  foyer  les  ramdne.  Le  lit  tout  grelottant 
pousse  une  plainte  humaine ;  et  Philippe  de  Valois  se  detache 
d'un  mur.     Vite  il  ouvre  un  bahut,  s'y  plonge  et  le  referme. 

Louis  XI  precautionneux  se  glisse  en  chattemite ;  sur  son 
chaperon  noir  tourne  une  souris  blanche ;  et  voici,  I'ecusson  de 
Bretagne  a  la  manche,  se  devorant  des  yeux,  Louis  XII  et  Charles 
VIII.     lis  ouvrent  le  bahut,  s'y  plongent  et  le  referment. 

Le  gamin  Frangois  II  dans  l'atre  va  vomir.  Le  lit,  soulevant 
ses  draps,  semble  un  fantome  en  peine.  Que  les  regnes  sont 
courts  dans  la  chambre  des  rois !  Avez-vous  vu  b^iller  le  grand 
coff re  de  bois  ? 

Plus  rien.     L'obscurite  chasse  les  quatre  murs. 

Aussitot,  un  eclat  du  foyer  les  ramene,  et  devant  Henri  II 
boite  Frangois  P^  lis  songent,  le  front  bas,  k  Diane  de  Poi- 
tiers, puis  s'abiment  ensemble  et  ferment  le  couvercle. 

X 


3o6  Six  French  Poets 

C'est  Charles  V  qui  le  releve  de  son  sceptre,  et  le  Roi-Sage 
est  rouge  d'un  reflet  de  bucher.  II  saute.  Est-ce  que  la  pourpre 
empeche  de  sauter?  II  roule  dans  sa  pourpre  et  jette  le  ba- 
ton. La  main  de  justice  vole  de  serrure  en  serrure  (eric !  crac !) 
toumant  les  clefs. 

Car  voici  Jean  le  Bon. 

Voute,  couvert  de  chaines  m^lodieuses  et  tristes,  il  a  mau- 
vais  sourire  et  les  yeux  bleus  du  Christ.  Le  dement  Charles 
VI  le  flagelle  en  cadence,  du  morion  aux  pattes,  avec  des  lys  de 
France,  et  Charles  VII,  I'ivrogne,  ramassant  les  petales,  baissela 
trogne.  Mais  il  titube.  II  a  trop  bu.  Trois  chutes  sepulcrales 
font  sonner  le  bahut. 

Les  rois  valois  sont  en  rumeur.  Le  lit  tressaille.  Les  onze 
rois  valois  en  appellent  un  autre.  La,  et  dans  les  miroirs,  voyez, 
le  coflfre  bailie.  La  Mort  s'exerce-t-elle  a  des  metamorphoses? 
A  chaque  baillement  des  cornes  de  Satyres  soulevent  le  couvercle 
et  vite  se  retirent. 

Puis  grand  silence.  .  .  . 

Enfin,  sortant  de  la  penombre,  un  blanc  visage  monte  comme 
la  lune  monte.  Et  le  lit  voit  passer  Charles  IX  aux  yeux  noirs. 
Houp !  le  bahut  I'aspire  et  tout  s'evanouit.  Une  souris  grignote 
au  fond  de  I'infini. 


Paul  Fort  307 

II 

Les  rideaux  des  croisees  sont  clos.  Les  meubles  dorment. 
Parfois  le  lit  royal  pousse  un  long  gemissement.  C'est  le  bois 
qui  se  plaint,  c'est  I'ame  du  vieux  cMne  ou,  peut-etre,  aux  flam- 
beaux, verrait-on  la  un  homme  ?  .  .  .  Et  tenez  !  I'atre  obscur 
se  ranime  et  frissonne ;  trois  petites  flammes  bleues  allongent 
leurs  reflets  qui  fauchent  la  moisson  des  murs  fleurdelises.  Le 
plafond  s'en  eclaire  et  parait  s'exhausser;  le  lit,  reste  dans 
I'ombre,  s'abtmer  sous  son  dome. 

La  chambre  ou  tout  vacille  est  en  proie  aux  fantomes. 

Une  lueur  derniere  frappe  sur  le  bahut  la  ronde  qui  s'echappe 
de  son  gouffre  entr'ouvert. 

Une  lueur  vivante  frappe  aux  flancs  du  bahut  la  ronde  qui 
toumoie  sur  son  bois  en  rumeur. 

Le  reflet  des  miroirs  isole  et  fait  saillir  la  ronde  aux  bonds 
lascifs  de  douze  grands  Satyres,  entourant  de  leurs  membres  un 
bouc  epouvante,  —  tandis  qu'en  ces  miroirs,  trente  fois  repete, 
un  Hercule  de  bronze  fait  tournoyer  sa  masse. 

II  a  du  Beamais  le  sourire  en  grimace.  Lui  vraiment !  Tout 
crache ! 

L'ombre  est  chaude.     Un  cri  couve.  .  .  . 

En  silence,  au  galop,  pousse  par  la  temp^te  silencieuse  des 
Temps  et  des  Temps  et  des  Temps,  en  silence,  au  galop  de  son 
cheval  de  fer,  Charlemagne  traverse  la  salle  d'un  coup  bref. 


3o8  Six  French  Poets 

Henri  de  Guise  le  suit  sur  son  haut  cheval  noir,  mais  ayant  fait 
fausse  route  se  perd  dans  un  miroir.  Et  puis  voici  Catherine, 
sa  grande  et  belle  figure  —  horrible  a  voir ! 

C'est  alors  qu' Henri  tire,  de  sa  stupeur,  un  cri  comme  il  en 
vient  la  nuit  du  fond  des  plaines,  ce  cri  des  solitudes  qui  s'enfle 
et  passe  et  traine,  decourageant  la  vie  au  coeur  du  voyageur ;  et 
c'est  I'instant  ou,  pris  dans  I'etoffe  agitee,  le  fer  d'une  hallebarde 
souleve  a  la  croisee  que  I'occident  allume,  un  rideau  qui  s'allege. 

Au  dehors  le  jour  tombe,  rose,  avec  de  la  neige. 


Ill 

Le  roi,  vStu  de  noir,  a  saute  hors  du  lit  et  va  dans  les  miroirs 
interroger  sa  face,  recule  a  sa  paleur,  et  tout  tremblant  se  coiffe. 
Alors,  son  chapeau  noir  isole  sa  paleur.  "Viendras-tu  reveiller 
un  sang  stupefie  (dit-il),  6  toi,  Hqueur !  ..."  A  ses  pieds  la 
coupe  tombe.  Ouvrant  doucement  la  porte,  il  ecoute  I'anti- 
chambre,  tout  allumee  d'epees  et  pleine  de  cUquetis. 

Les  gants.     La  canne  d'eb^ne.     Et  le  voila  parti. 

"Le  roi,  Messieurs.  Le  roi!"  —  Une  hallebarde  sonne. 
Voix,  chuchotis,  bruits  de  chaises.  La  lueur  crepusculaire 
souligne  en  petillant  les  solives  dorees.  L'antichambre  est  con- 
fuse, pleine  d'ombres  vassales,  penchees  vers  un  couloir  ou 
s'avance  un  point  blanc. 

La-bas,  le  lit  royal  est  blotti  sous  son  d6me,  tout  au  bout  d'un 
couloir  ou  s'avance  un  point  blanc. 


Paul  Fort  309 


"Le  roi !"  —  Deuxieme  &ho.  —  Une  hallebaxde  sonne. 

Quelle  blancheur  ovale,  a  hauteur  de  visage,  remue  deux 
perles  longues  comme  la  lune  en  pleurerait?  Visage  et  pedes 
longues,  Henri  III  apparait.  Et  les  ombres  vassales,  toutes  les 
ombres  se  courbent. 

Un  vol  de  feuilles  mortes  est-il  ici  tomb^  ?  .  .  . 

—  "Toi  qui  risques  un  ceil,  regarde :  le  crepuscule  souligne- 
t-il  encore  les  soUves  dorees  ? 

—  Oui,  mais  le  roi  ? 

—  Le  roi,  mon  fils  ?  .  .  .     II  est  pass^. 

—  Quelus,  mon  bon  ami,  cela  tient  du  prodige. 

—  Maugiron,  Saint-Megrin,  ecoutez  la  merveille :  ce  soir 
rOmbre  du  roi  dans  le  palais  voltige,  masquee  de  clair  de  lune 
et  deux  larmes  aux  oreilles. 

—  Va-t-elle  retrouver  Catherine  en  ses  nuages  ?  Elle  monte 
Tescalier. 

—  C'est  au  second  6tage ! " 

Une  hallebarde  sonne.  Voix,  chuchotis,  bruits  de  chaises. 
Au  dehors  le  jour  tombe,  rose,  avec  de  la  neige. 

IV 

Cependant  que  le  roi  court  dans  I'escalier  vide,  Chicot  sur- 
vient  bergant  sa  lanteme  allumee  :  on  entoure  le  Fou  qui  ricane 
et  s'esquive,  et  reparait,  haussant  et  bergant  sa  lanteme,  ainsi 
qu'un  encensoir,  au  bas  de  I'escalier. 


310  Six  Fretich  Poets 


"Continuez,  Messieurs,  je  cherche  un  roi,"  dit-il. 

L'antichambre  est  obscure  avec  de  grands  coins  pales,  ovi  dej^ 
les  flambeaux  s'allument  sous  des  mains.  L'un  d'eux  jette 
une  flamme  de  neige  et  de  carmin.  Vite  les  mains  s'ecartent. — 
On  voit  toute  la  salle.  —  Legeres,  au  bout  des  bras  les  ep6es  s'in- 
cendient  et,  se  liant  par  deux,  peuplent  I'air  d'etincelles :  quel- 
ques  lames  fredonnent,  d'autres  sont  en  cliquetis,  et  des  ombres 
de  torses  font  bouger  les  murailles,  et  les  pieds  des  Mignons 
frou-froutent  sur  les  dalles. 

—  "Chicot,  s'ecrie  Quelus,  I'Ombre  du  roi  voltige.  Que 
fais-tu  la,  Chicot?  Veux-tu  bien  voltiger?  Arme  de  ta  chan- 
delle,  tu  la  verras  monter. 

—  Mais  non,  je  vois  descendre. 

—  Qui  done  ? 

—  Henri  de  Guise. 

—  Diable !  il  est  en  Espagne  ...  (A  vous,  Monsieur, 
touche !) 

—  Pardon,  mon  cher  seigneur,  il  descend  I'escalier. 

—  Chicot,  prends  garde  a  toi !  .  .  .  C'est  parbleu  vrai, 
Messieurs.     Je  I'ai  vu." 

Les  epees  retombent  sur  les  dalles. 

Cependant  que  le  roi  court  dans  I'escalier  vide,  seul,  jusque 
chez  sa  m^re  Catherine  en  ses  nuees,  et  ne  sent  pas  glisser  la 
cuirasse  limpide  de  monseigneur  de  Guise  qui  se  range  au  palier. 
Le  due  est  bien  en  chair  pourtant.     Son  coeur  bat  fort.     Mais 


Paul  Fort  311 

non  pas  jusqu'a  faire  tinter  le  froid  metal  que  monseigneur 
derobe,  du  chapeau,  en  saluant. 

Tout  au  bas  I'escalier  flamboie.  Le  due  descend.  II  de- 
scend marche  a  marche  conime  un  discret  fantome.  On  se 
presse,  on  le  voit.  Le  due  revient  d'Espagne  comme  un  dis- 
cret fantome  —  et  meme  il  en  revient  par  la  chambre  a  coucher 
de  la  reine ! 

—  "Incroyable,"  dit  Maugiron. 

—  "Ce  Guise  est  fort,"  dit  Saint-Megrin. 

—  "Place  a  monseigneur-duc ! " 

La  cuirasse  limpide  entraine  les  epees.  Tout  s'ecoule. 
Tout  s'eteint. 

V 

Henri  III,  cependant,  mi-couche  sur  la  rampe,  du  haut  de 
I'escalier  a  tout  vu  cette  fois.  II  tire  de  son  cou  un  sanglot  de 
colombe,  puis  se  releve. 

Un  mur  s'entr'ouvre  pour  le  roi. 

VI 
Ici,  rien  qu'une  lampe  eclairant  vme  main. 

Tout,  sinon  cette  lampe  et  sauf  le  parchemin,  ou  cette  main 
potelee,  vieillotte,  amidonnee,  guide  la  plume  d'oie  ou  cherche 
I'encrier,  ici  tout  est  dans  I'ombre.     La  main,  par  aventure, 


312  Six  French  Poets 

disparaissant  iin  peu,  laisse  de  I'^criture.  Alors,  void  ce  que 
la  flamme  pourrait  lire,  qui  sur  les  caract^res  se  tord  comme  une 
martyre : 

"A  Madame  mafille,  la  Reine  catholique, 

"Ma  fille  aimee,  ma  mie,  ma  docile  Isabelle,  fai  bien  requ  de 
vos  nouvelles  d'Espagne.  Monsieur  de  Guise  me  les  apporta. 
Certes!  il  Jerait  beau  voir  tous  ces  mechants  heretiques  brUlant  en 
une  seule  torche  (ainsi  en  France  comme  vousjaites  Id-bas).  HelasI 
mignonne,  id  rien  ne  se  peut.  Ce  n'est  chez  nous  que  perversion ; 
et  doiileurs  pour  votre  bonne  mere.  Vous  savez  les  afflictions  qu'il 
plait  au  del  de  m'envoyer  et  qui  sont  des  plus  grandes  qu'il  envoya 
jamais  d  personne.  BrMer  les  heretiques!  Ah!  oui,  beau  bou- 
quet de  flammes,  certes !  grand  feu  de  joie  et  qui  plairait  d,  Dieu. 
Mais  quoi,  fillette,  en  France  rien  ne  se  peut.  Tout  reste  id 
dans  Vombre,  mtme  VOmbre  royale.  .  .  ." 

A  I'orabre  d'un  visage  pend  une  l^vre  blanche.  Sous  un 
bonnet  de  tulle  noir  un  front  se  penche,  battu  de  rides  mouvantes 
comme  un  clocher  d'oiseaux,  et  plus  ce  front  se  penche  et  plus 
il  parait  haut.  L'oeil  mouille  de  Catherine  s'argente.  La 
courbe  dure  et  fine  du  long  nez  italien  se  profile,  que  tire,  ainsi 
qu'tm  arc,  le  pli  de  la  narine. 

C'est  I'instant  ou  Catherine,  boudeuse  et  pacifique,  biffe  d'un 
trait  de  plume  sa  phrase  impolitique. 

Or  un  autre  visage  s'est  leve  dans  la  salle.  Derri^re  elle 
Catherine  sent  vivre  une  paleur.  Elle  a  cesse  d'ecrire  en  ecou- 
tant  son  coeur.     Deux  petites  mains  gantees  lui  tombent  aux 


Paul  Fort  313 

epaules,  comme  deux  chauves-souris  tuees  d'un  meme  coup  de 
gaule.  Et  I'une  des  petites  mains  roulant  jusqu'a  son  coeur, 
vient  s  'y  crisper.  .  .  . 

Alors,  du  bout  de  sa  plume  d'oie,  Catherine,  pensivement, 
doucement,  la  caresse.  Et  tous  deux  songent  et  I'heure  est 
pleine  de  paresse. 

La  main  se  deraidit,  tremblante.  .  .  .  Par  un  doigt !  void 
le  parchemin  designe  par  un  doigt !  "  Tout  reste  id  dans  V ombre, 
meme  VOmhre  royale." 

Deux  mains  saisissent  le  cou  de  Catherine,  et  la  reine  levant 
son  front  terrible  vient  de  crier  :  "Mon  roi !"  —  Un  cri  bref  du 
parquet  revele  une  fuite  soudaine,  et  bientot  Henri  III  descend 
I'escalier  vide. 

VII 

II  franchit  I'antichambre  obscure  et  desertee,  se  jette  contre 
un  mur  les  deux  bras  ecartes  et  cherche  le  couloir  tout  le  long 
du  mur  vide. 

Plus  rien  :   du  vide. 

Le  roi  chancelle ;  il  court,  chancelle ;  il  court  jusqu'a  sa 
porte  ouverte  et  veut  passer,  mais  s'arrete,  le  poing  sur  la  gorge 
et  livide,  devant  une  hallebarde  somnolente  et  berc^e. 

Henri  saisit  la  jambe  du  garde  qu'il  reveille,  car  —  6  stupeur ! 
—  derriere  la  garde  qu'il  reveille,  1^!  dans  son  lit!  .  .  .  quel- 
qu'un,  quelqu'un  ou  quelque  chose,  de  semblable  k  lui-m^me  (et 


314  Six  French  Poets 

peut-etre  lui-meme),  de  noir  et  blanc,  un  homme,  un  roi  ou  quel- 
que  chose,  un  roi  peut-fitre?  Charles  IX  ou  Frangois?  un  fan- 
tome  couche  dort  du  sommeil  des  morts. 

—  "Garde  !  Allons,  toi !  Qui  done  est  chez  le  roi  de  France ? 
A  qui  cette  paleur?  Ces  loques  sont  a  moi !  Suis-je  sorti, 
voyons,  ou  bien  est-ce  moi,  la?  Quelle  est  cette  chose?"  — 
"Helas!"  dit  I'homme  dans  les  transes,  "helas!  mon  cher 
seigneur,  mais  je  .  .  .  je  ne  sais  pas." 

—  "Silence,"  dit  une  voix.  Une  voix  dit:  "Silence.  .  .  ." 
Le  roi  tremble  accroupi  comme  une  grenouille  au  froid,  et  la 
hallebarde  tombe  et  le  garde  se  sauve. 

—  "Ce  n'est  rien,  mon  doux  sire,  c'est  Chicot  qui  repose." 
Et  Chicot  deguerpit  en  entrainant  un  drap. 

VIII 

Minuit?  .  .  . 

Minuit  Sonne  k  Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. 

If  I  were  asked  to  pick  out  which  was  the  finest 
poem  of  all  those  written  by  the  men  we  have  been 
studying,  I  should  unhesitatingly  pick  out  that. 
To  understand  it  thoroughly  one  must,  of  course, 
know  one's  French  history.  The  poem  is  saturated 
with  historical  allusions ;  every  little  happening  has 
its  meaning.     I  have  no  space  here  to  unravel  all 


Paul  Fort  315 

these  suggestions,  they  can  easily  be  followed  by  any 
one  conversant  with  history,  and  may  serve  as  a 
starting  point  for  inquiry  to  any  one  who  is  not. 
The  whole  poem  is  so  impregnated  with  the  super- 
natural, so  full  of  foreboding,  that  the  real  and  the 
imagined  blend,  until  one  hardly  knows  what  is 
fact,  what  reminiscence,  and  what  presentiment. 

Briefly,  the  story  is  of  the  secret  return  of  the 
Due  de  Guise  to  Paris,  egged  on  thereto  by  Philip 
II  of  Spain.  His  return,  you  will  remember,  was 
followed  by  the  "Day  of  the  Barricades"  in  which 
Henri  III  was  besieged  in  his  own  palace  by  the 
population  of  Paris.  With  his  escape  to  Chartres, 
and  the  subsequent  events  of  his  reign,  the  poem 
does  not  deal. 

Henri  III  is  a  series  of  scenes,  and  nothing  is  lack- 
ing, no  little  touch,  to  give  the  character  of  Henri, 
of  Catherine,  of  the  Due  de  Guise.  All  the  King's 
effeminacy  is  in  the  pale  face  and  long  pearls  which 
his  mignons  see  advancing  down  the  corridor.  How 
excellent  in  its  vacillating  impotence  is  his  scene 
with  Catherine,  when  he  puts  up  his  hand  to  strangle 
her,  but  "un  cri  bref  du  parquet  revele  une  fuite 
soudaine"  and  the  King  flees  down  the  staircase! 
Then  the  finding  of  the  fool  in  his  bed  and  fearing 
for  a  moment  that  it  is  himself,  that  he  is  a  ghost 
—  he  or  that  other ;  then,  when  the  fool  has  been 
roused  and  routed,  the  sudden  striking  of  midnight 
from  the  belfry  of  Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,   the 


3i6  Six  French  Poets 

hour  and  the  clock  which  had  ushered  in  the  Mas- 
sacre of  Saint  Bartholomew.  It  is  breathless,  this 
end,  worked  up  as  it  has  been  by  one  stroke  after 
another,  all  through  the  poem. 

But,  to  go  back  a  moment  to  the  beginning,  notice 
how  the  tone  is  given  by  the  first  lines:  "Les 
rideaux  des  croisees  sont  clos.  Les  meubles  dor- 
ment;"  and,  a  Httle  farther  on,  "Trois  petites 
flammes  bleues  dansent  sur  le  foyer.  .  .  .  Plus 
rien.  L'obscurite  chasse  les  quatre  murs."  In  this 
weird  darkness,  pierced  every  now  and  then  by  a 
spurt  from  the  dying  fire,  the  long  procession  of 
French  Kings  passes  through  the  room  and  plunges 
into  the  great  oak  chest.  They  come,  and  come, 
some  of  them  on  horseback  "pousse  par  la  tempete 
silencieuse  des  Temps  et  des  Temps  et  des  Temps," 
in  which  the  words  fall  like  the  hoof-beats  of  a 
galloping  horse  —  until  Henri  III  wakes  with  a  cry  to 
the  twilight  "rose,  avec  de  la  neige."  It  is  sketched 
in  with  a  word,  that  cold  twilight.  He  enters  the  ante- 
chamber "all  lit  up  with  swords,  and  full  of  clash- 
ings,"  then  —  "  Une  hallebarde  sonne,"  and  we  hear 
the  butt  of  it  ringing  on  the  stone  pavement  as  the 
guard  comes  to  attention.  But  the  poem  is  here, 
why  point  out  what  can  escape  no  one. 

After  Louis  XI  came  Les  Idylles  Antiques  and 
L' Amour  Marin,  both  in  1900.  Fort  is  very  charm- 
ing in  his  Idylls.  His  antiquity  is  neither  old  nor 
new.  It  is  neither  conventional  nor  pastiche,  it  is 
just  Nature,  if  I  may  so  express  it.     Nature  mas- 


Paul  Fort  317 

querading  as  Pan  for  the  sake  of  convenience.     One 
short  quotation  must  suffice  us  here : 

PAN  AUX  CERISES 

(Vision  de  Berger) 

lo  !  j'ai  reconnu  Pan  a  sa  libre  parure,  k  ses  poils  !  II  sautait 
dans  le  soleil,  cueillant  d'un  geste  aise,  parfois,  une  cerise  aux 
arbres  vermeils.  Qu'il  etait  pur  !  Des  gouttes  d'eau  perlaient 
sur  sa  lisse  toison  comme  des  etoiles  :  on  I'eut  dit  d'argent. 

Et  c'etait  sous  I'azur  de  mon  jeune  printemps. 

Or,  ayant  avise  dans  I'air  une  cerise  plus  grosse  et  plus  belle, 
il  la  saisit,  et  puisa  le  noyau  sous  la  pulpe  sanglante.  Je  ra'ap- 
prochai.  J'etais  ravi  .  .  .  Lui  m'ayant  vise  I'ceil,  je  regus  le 
noyau.  J'allais  tuer  Pan  de  mon  couteau  !  II  etendit  un  bras, 
fit  une  volte,  et  tout  le  Monde  touma. 

Adorons  Pan,  le  dieu  du  Monde ! 

Fort  is  excellent  in  his  sailor  poems.  In  them  one 
can  smell  the  salt  wind,  and  hear  the  waves  lapping 
on  the  beach.  U Amour  Marin  is  probably  the  most 
successful  of  them,  but  as  it  is  a  very  long  poem  in 
dialect  I  will  give  instead  Les  Baisers. 

LES  BAISERS 

En  se  quittant,  on  n's'est  rien  dit.  Et  nous  avons  cru  que 
Ton  ne  s'aimait  guere.  Pendant  qu'on  s'quittait,  on  s'est  tu 
bien  longtemps.      C'etait,  comme  on  dit,  comme  de  I'indifTerence. 


31 8  Six  French  Poets 


On  s'^tait  bien  embrasses  pourtant,  hier  et  avant,  tu  m'as 
dit :  cinq  jours.  Mais  on  s'etait  dit :  5a  n'dure  pas  longtemps, 
cinq  jours  de  baisers,  c'est  comme  le  beau  temps. 

Aujourd'hui  mer  bleutee  et  demain  c'est  I'orage.  Y  n'faut 
pas  trop  demander  k  Tamour.  Et  puis,  les  marins,  voyez-vous, 
ga  voyage.  Un  bateau  baise  le  sable.  .  .  .  Que  les  baisers 
sont  courts ! 

And  now  we  come  to  one  of  the  most  enchanting 
of  all  Fort's  books.  Paris  Sentimental  ou  le  Roman 
de  Nos  Vingt  Ans.  It  is  as  full  of  youth  as  Henri 
III  was  full  of  history.  It  is  bubbling  over  with 
adolescence.     One  poem  in  it  I  must  print  here : 

PREMIER  RENDEZ-VOUS 

(Square  Monge) 

Ivresse  du  printemps !  et  le  gazon  toume  autour  de  la  statue 
de  Voltaire.  —  Ah  !  vraiment,  c'est  d'un  beau  vert,  c'est  trds 
joli,  le  square  Monge  :  herbe  verte,  grille  et  bancs  verts,  gardien 
vert,  c'est,  quand  j'y  songe,  un  beau  coin  de  I'univers.  —  Ivresse 
du  printemps  !  et  le  gazon  tourne  autour  de  la  statue  de  Voltaire. 

Et  c'est  plein  d'oiseaux  dans  les  arbres  pales,  ou  le  ciel  ouvre 
ses  fleurs  bleues.  —  Les  pigeons  s'aiment  d'amour  tendre.  Les 
moineatix  remuent  leur  queue.  J'attends.  ...  Oh !  je  suis 
heureux,  dans  ce  delice  de  I'attendre.  Je  suis  gai,  fou,  amour- 
eux !  —  et  c'est  plein  d'oiseatix  dans  les  arbres  pales,  ou  le  ciel 
ouvre  ses  fleurs  bleues. 


Paul  Fort  319 


Je  monte  sur  les  bancs  couleurs  d'esperance,  ou  bien  je  fais 
de  I'equilibre  ...  sur  les  arceatix  du  parterre,  devant  la  statue 
de  Voltaire.  Vive  tout !  vive  moi !  vive  la  France  !  II  n'est 
rien  que  je  n'espere.  J'ai  les  ailes  de  I'esperance.  —  Je  monte 
sur  les  bancs  pour  qviitter  la  terre,  ou  bien  je  fais  de  I'equilibre. 

Elle  a  dit:  una  heure;  il  n'est  que  midi!  Aux  amoureux 
I'heure  est  breve.  —  L'oiseau  chante,  le  soleil  reve.  Chaque 
fois  qu'Adam  rencontre  Eve,  il  leur  faut  un  paradis.  Derridre 
la  grille,  au  soleil,  I'omnibus  y  pense  engoiu-di.  —  Elle  a  dit :  une 
heure ;  il  n'est  que  midi !     Aux  amoureux  I'heiu-e  est  breve. 

Devant  la  statue,  tm  chat  blanc,  un  jaune, — et  le  jaune,  c'est 
une  chatte  ! — roulent,  s'eboulent  sur  le  gazon  chaud,  se  montrent 
les  pattes,  miaulent,  se  battent.  Le  soleil  etire  doucement  ton 
sourire,  6  mon  doiix  Voltaire,  6  bon  faune.  —  Devant  ta  statue,  \xn. 
chat  blanc,  un  jaune,  roulent,  s'eboulent,  se  montrent  les  pattes. 

Les  arbres  s'enfeuiUent  au  chant  des  oiseaux.  Le  bourgeon 
de  mon  coevir  eclate  !  —  Et  je  vactUe  rien  qu'a  voir  les  diamants 
de  I'arrosoir  envelopper  I'herbe  d'vme  bruine.  Un  arc-en-ciel 
part  de  I'echine  du  philosophe,  et  va  trembler  dans  les  branches 
d'xm  marronnier.  —  Les  arbres  s'enfeuillent  au  chant  des  oiseaux. 
Le  bourgeon  de  mon  cceur  eclate  ! 

L'azur  est  en  feu :  un  chien  flaire  un  chien  sous  le  banc  ou 
dort  le  gardien.  —  Une  petite  fille  saute  a  la  corde,  et  sur  son 
ombre,  et  d'autres  et  d'autres.  Je  vois  leurs  ombres,  stir  I'allee, 
ou  s'elargir  ou  s'affiner.  Et  tout  5a  chante  a  qui  mieux  mieux : 
"Au  petit  feu  !  au  grand  feu !  c'est  pour  eclairer  le  bon  Dieu  !" 


320  Six  French  Poets 

—  L'azur  est  en  feu :  un  chien  flaire  un  chien,  sous  le  banc  ou 
dort  le  gardien. 

Voici  le  marchand  de  coco  musical,  charg^  de  ses  robinets 
d'or.  —  Ses  robinets  sont  des  serpents,  d'ou  gicle  son  coco  sonore 
dans  les  timbales  des  enfants.  Rafraichissons  notre  luxure : 
vite !  pour  un  sou  de  ta  mixture,  Laocoon  etincelant.  Je  bois  k 
toute  la  Nature,  je  bois  a  ton  bronze  bouillant,  toi  qui  souris  de 
I'aventure,  6  vieux  Voltaire,  6  doux  mechant.  —  Voici  le  mar- 
chand de  coco  musical.     Ses  robinets  sont  des  serpents. 

Ah  !  printemps,  quel  feu  monte  de  la  terre !  quel  feu  descend 
du  ciel,  printemps!  —  Devant  la  statue  de  Voltaire,  j 'attends 
ma  nouvelle  Manon.  Et  cependant  qu'elle  tarde,  Voltaire, 
assis,  est  patient :  je  regarde  ce  qu'il  regarde,  une  paquerette  dans 
le  gazon.  J'attends.  —  J'attends,  6  ciel!  j 'attends,  6  terre! 
sous  toutes  les  fiammes  du  printemps ! 

Deux  heures.  Eparpillons  cette  marguerite.  "Un  peu, 
beaucoup,  passionnement  .  .  ."  —  Passionnement,  petite  Ma- 
non, viens  vite,  accours,  je  t'en  supplie.  —  He !  toi,  tu  souris 
d'un  sourire  k  me  rendre  fort  mecontent.     Sale  encyclopediste  I 

—  Oh !  ...  La  voici  sous  toutes  les  fiammes  du  printemps !  .  ,  . 

Et  les  arbres  toument  et  le  gazon  toume  autour  de  la  statue 
de  Voltaire.  —  D6cidement,  c'est  d'un  beau  vert,  c'est  deli- 
cieux,  le  square  Monge :  herbe  verte,  grille  et  bancs  verts,  gar- 
dien vert,  c'est,  quand  j'y  songe,  un  beau  coin  de  I'univers.  — 
Je  monte  sur  un  banc  couleur  d'esperance.  On  doit  me  voir  de 
toute  la  France ! 


Paul  Fort  321 

Where  is  there  a  better  presentation  of  youth  and 
Spring !  The  young  man  balancing  himself  upon 
the  wire  arches  which  border  the  flower-beds,  and, 
in  the  laughing  egoism  of  his  bubbling  exuberance, 
declaring  that  surely  from  there  he  can  be  seen  by 
all  France,  is  delightful.  I  wish  I  had  space  for 
others  of  the  poems  in  this  volume,  particularly  Sur 
le  Pont  au  Change,  but  I  must  leave  them  for  my 
readers  to  find. 

In  1903,  Hymnes  du  Feu  came  out,  and  in  1906, 
Coxcomb  ou  VHomme  Tout  Nu  Tombe  du  Paradis. 
This  last  is  a  strange  sort  of  ironical  allegory.  It 
cannot  be  taken  to  pieces,  I  leave  it  to  those  who 
wish  to  read  it.  It  is  one  of  his  best  things  and  well 
worth  the  trouble  of  getting  the  volume. 

In  1905,  Paul  Fort  founded  the  quarterly,  Vers  et 
Prose,  which  he  has  edited  ever  since.  How  he  has 
found  time  for  such  an  arduous  task,  with  all  his 
other  writing,  I  do  not  know.  The  theory  that  we 
are  harder  workers,  or  greater  hustlers,  in  America, 
does  not  seem  to  be  borne  out  by  the  lives  of 
Verhaeren,  Gourmont,  Regnier,  and  Fort.  This 
description  of  Fort  chez  lui  is  not  without  interest, 
depicting  as  it  does  that  most  intimate  thing 
about  a  man,  the  room  in  which  he  feels  most  at 
home : 

"A  little  beyond  the  great  bronze  lion  of  the  Place 
Denfert-Rochereau,  in  the  Avenue  d'Orleans  —  a 
little  street,  narrow,  grey,  and  sad.     On  the  second 


322  Six  French  Poets 

floor  of  one  of  the  houses  in  this  street  Hves  Paul 
Fort,  with  his  mother,  his  wife,  and  his  daughter. 
The  room  in  which  Paul  Fort  works  is  small,  rather 
sombre,  furnished  with  a  bed  of  walnut  half-covered 
with  a  big  eiderdown  of  violet  serge,  all  puffed  up ; 
some  chairs,  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  a  wardrobe ; 
and  against  the  window,  with  its  white  curtains,  a 
round  table  packed  with  papers,  books,  and  reviews, 
which  mount  in  zigzagging  piles  to  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  ceiling.  On  the  walls,  pictures  — 
little  paintings  given  by  painter  friends,  family  photo- 
graphs. Paul  Fort  is  there,  dressed  in  black,  and 
as  usual,  at  whatever  hour  you  see  him,  tightly 
cravatted  with  a  large  ribbon  of  black  silk  wound 
many  times  round  his  neck." 

Paul  Fort  looks  like  the  traditional  poet,  with 
long  hair.  He  complains  that  he  is  taken  for  a 
musician  on  account  of  it.  Possibly  for  D'Indy,  he 
says,  with  a  smile,  D'Indy  being  bald. 

Some  years  ago,  Paul  Fort  was  elected  Prince  des 
Poetes ;  a  position  which  Verlaine,  Mallarme,  and 
Leon  Dierx  held  before  him.  The  Societe  des  Poetes 
elects  the  holder  of  this  purely  visionary  ofhce,  its 
reason  for  being  consisting  in  the  honour  of  elec- 
tion to  it.  That  Paul  Fort  should  have  received  it, 
proves  that  even  typography  cannot  keep  a  man 
for  ever  from  his  just  rights.  All  his  critics  bewail 
the  fact  that,  writing  Chansons  Populaires,  still  Paul 
Fort  is  not  yet  accepted  by  the  people.     Whether  his 


Paul  Fort  323 

Chansons  are  really  for  the  masses,  those  who  know 
the  French  proletariat  are  the  best  judges.  But  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that,  judging  by  most  proletariats, 
Paul  Fort's  irony  and  learning,  his  many  overtones 
and  subtle  meanings,  would  do  away  with  any 
success  his  robustness  might  win  him.  Whether  the 
proletariat  agrees  or  not,  Paul  Fort  is  a  great  poet, 
a  very  great  poet. 

It  is  interesting  to  us  to  have  him  say  :  "I  have  a 
great  admiration  for  the  English  poets,  for  Keats 
first  of  all.  They  always  present  themselves  in  a 
poetic  intoxication.  Their  poems  do  not  begin,  do 
not  end.  They  make  one  think  of  outspread  moon- 
light, which  gives  mystery  and  profoundness  to 
nature  and  to  the  objects  bathed  in  its  radiance.  I 
should  like  to  realize,  in  French,  a  poetry  like  theirs, 
which  would  enable  me  to  envelop  more,  to  blur 
more,  so  to  speak,  the  psychological  subjects  of  my 
writings,  which,  on  the  other  hand,  would  be  obliged 
to  keep  a  very  French  character." 
,  It  is  this  endeavour  which  gives  to  Paul  Fort  his 
qualities  of  Englishman  and  Frenchman,  which  I 
have  spoken  of  several  times. 

I  have  not  mentioned  in  detail  all  Paul  Fort's 
books.  I  have  spoken  of  eight,  and  there  are  eight 
others  I  have  not  mentioned.  It  is  not  possible  to 
take  more  than  a  bird's-eye  view  of  such  a  man  as 
Paul  Fort  in  a  single  chapter.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  the  eight  volumes  I  have  not  mentioned,  al- 


324  "Six  French  Poets 

though  full  of  beautiful  things,  do  not  perhaps  show 
any  distinctively  new  facet  of  his  genius. 

Since  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  Paul  Fort  has  been 
writing  poems  on  the  war.  These  are  issued  in 
little,  unbound  parts,  twice  a  month.  It  was  from 
the  first  of  these  that  I  quoted,  when  I  gave  the 
description  of  his  childhood  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Cathedral  at  Rheims.  In  closing,  I  want  to  quote 
one  more  poem  from  the  Poemes  de  France,  as  he 
calls  them.  This  is  no  longer  the  time  for  Ballades, 
as  Fort  naturally  feels. 

This  poem  is  a  new  note.  It  is  Paul  Fort  burnt 
in  the  fire  of  a  great  national  calamity : 

LE  CHANT   DES  ANGLAIS 

It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary. 

Feu  !  Tommy  .  .  .  Le  coeur  gigue  aux  chocs  de  nos  canons. 
Du  calme,  bon  gargon.  Ah!  c'est  rudement  long,  rudement 
long  pour  aller  a  Tipperary.  Depuis  la  soif  d'hier  apaisee  sans 
whisky,  je  canonne,  on  canonne.     All !  .  .  .  c'est  rudement  bon. 

Qui  m'a  jete  sa  gourde  ?  Eh  !  vieux  Bob,  tu  es  mort  ?  Du 
cahne,  cher  gargon.  A  bientot  Leicester  .  .  .  Square.  .  .  . 
All  right !  il  est  mort  pour  sa  vieille  Angleterre.  La  gourde  est 
vide:  feu!  Tommy,  canonne  encore!  Nous  nous  battons  si 
bien,  all  right !  les  morts  ont  tort. 

Du  calme,  fier  gargon.  Ah  !  c'est  rudement  long,  rudement 
long  pour  aller  a  Tipperary,  la-bas,  pres  de  la  joUe  fiUe  que  je 


Paul  Fort  325 

connais.     Elle  me  disait  oui  quand  je  lui  disais  non.     Feul 
Tommy.     Le  coeur  gigue  aux  chocs  de  nos  canons. 

Tommy,  sache,  Tommy,  que  I'amour  a  du  bon.  Oui,  c'est 
une  lointaine  et  fine  demoiselle,  que  Ton  n'atteint  jamais  qu'en 
reve.  O  large  bee !  Tu  r^ves  et  tout  vient,  I'ame  et  le  corps 
avec.     Ici  rien  que  la  mort,  elle  est  fichue  donzelle. 

La  mort !  ah  !  si  j'avais  toume  les  yeux  vers  elle,  la  teutonne 
m'eut  pris  le  cou  de  son  bras  sec  et  fait  gouter  sa  bouche  en- 
dentee  de  shrapnells,  en  m'etouffant  le  sein  jusqu'^  I'extr^me 
angoisse.     Juste  Seigneur !   I'amour  n'a  rien  de  plus  cruel ! 

Mais  la  mort,  on  n'y  pense  pas,  elle  est  en  face.  Du  calme, 
heureux  gargon.  La  mort,  la  verrais-tu?  Flottant  sur  la  ba- 
taille  ainsi  qu'un  ^tendard,  c'est  un  grand  vieux  squelette  use  de 
toute  part :  elle  flotte  a  present  sur  les  casques  pointus. 

Feu !  Tommy  .  .  .  Quoi !  tu  meurs  aussi,  gargon  fiddle  ? 
Te  voil^  dans  les  bras  de  la  fichue  donzelle  ?  Releve-toi,  gargon ! 
Ah  !  c'est  rudement  long,  rudement  long  pour  aller  k  Tipperary. 
Adieu,  Leicester  Square,  adieu,  Piccadilly ! 

Nous  etions  quinze,  hurrah !  nous  sommes  trois  qui  bougent. 
0  canon,  tes  boulets  sont  teints  de  notre  sang,  notre  sang  qui 
refait  notre  unif orme  rouge :  devant  nous  les  Teutons  sont  ex- 
sangues  de  peur,  ils  croient  que  nous  chargeons  ta  gueule  avec 
nos  coeurs. 

Dansons !  dansons  la  gigue !  —  Ah  !  oui  .  .  .  quoique  vain- 
queurs,  nous  dansons  notre  gigue  en  plein  ciel  du  Seigneur. 


326  Six  French  Poets 

Nous,  bons  gargons,  nous  sommes  a  Tipperary.  Bonjour,  Kate, 
bonjour,  Annie,  bonjour,  Nelly  .  .  .  Nos  coeurs  se  trouvent 
bien,  pourvu  que  sur  la  terre, 

elle  vive  a  jamais  notre  vieille  Angle  terre  ! 

To  take  "Tipperary,"  and  make  such  a  terrible, 
tragic  thing  with  it,  this  is  Paul  Fort's  genius :  to 
react  to  the  stimuli  about  him,  and  so  reacting  to 
produce  great  art.  More  than  any  one,  he  has  felt 
the  common,  and  turned  it  into  the  uncommon. 

The  book  is  done.  I  have  not  attempted  any 
very  far-reaching  criticism.  My  object  has  been  to 
talk  a  little  while  about  a  few  great  figures  in  a 
generation  which  is  already  past  the  meridian. 
For  eighty  years  or  so,  this  great  era  for  French 
poetry  has  lasted.  But  already  before  the  war  it 
was  on  the  wane.  The  younger  men :  Jules  Ro- 
mains,  Andre  Spire,  Guillaume  Apollinaire,  Guy- 
Charles  Cros,  Charles  Vildrac,  do  not  seem  to  have 
quite  the  same  remarkable  power.  Foolish  fads,  a 
sure  sign  of  disease,  were  creeping  in.  Now  the  war 
has  ended  a  period.  When  France  recovers  herself 
from  the  exhaustion  which  must  follow  her  supreme 
effort,  it  will  be  another  generation  of  poets  who  will 
be  writing  ;  they  will  sing  their  present,  and  our  pres- 
ent will  be  their  past.  The  six  men  we  have  studied 
are  the  last  glorious  flower  of  a  time  already  over. 


^ 


APPENDICES 


APPENDIX  A 

Most  of  the  following  translations  are  in  prose,  for  the  reason 
that  I  have  stated  in  the  Preface,  but  the  stanzas  have  been 
preserved  in  order  to  make  comparison  with  the  original  easier 
for  the  reader.  In  a  few  cases  the  stanzas  have  been  suppressed, 
but  only  when  the  transition  from  one  to  another  became  awk- 
ward in  the  prose  form.  The  French  fondness  for  parentheses 
has  made  it  necessary  to  change  the  punctuation  somewhat,  but 
the  original  punctuation  has  been  kept  wherever  practicable.  A 
few  of  the  translations  are  in  vers  libre,  because  the  feeling  of  those 
particular  poems  seemed  to  evaporate  in  prose ;  and  three  of  the 
translations  are  in  metre,  because  the  originals  appeared  to  me  to 
require  such  a  rendering.  Opposite  each  translation  is  the  num- 
ber of  the  page  in  the  text  where  the  original  poem  may  be  found. 

EMILE  VERHAEREN 

Page  8.  A  fist  of  terror  tortures  the  villages ; 

In  the  distance,  tall  steeples 
Send  the  echo  of  their  alarm-bells 
Rebounding  from  shore  to  shore. 

Page  8.       The  wind  sings,  the  wind  babbles, 

with  chaffinch  and  grosbeak  and  sparrow, 
the  wind  whistles,  shines  and  sparkles' 
327 


328  Six  French  Poets 

at  the  points  of  the  tall  reeds ; 

the  wind  knots  itself  together,  and  winds  about  itself 
and  unwinds, 

and  then  suddenly  escapes  to  the  bright  orchards  be- 
yond, 

where  the  apple-trees,  like  white  peacocks  — 

mother-of-pearl  and  sunlight  — 

outspread  themselves. 

Page  g.      And  up  above,  September  journeys 

With  his  sky  of  mother-of-pearl  and  gold, 

And  hangs  the  shining  blocks  of  his  most  beautiful 

clouds 
Over  the  meadows,  the  fields,  and  the  villages. 

Page  g.       Do  you  hear  it,  do  you  hear  it, 

The  little  stream  upon  the  pebbles  ? 

It  flows,  and  runs,  and  sUdes ; 

And,  to  the  branches 

Which  hang  above  it. 

Softly  dedicates  its  smooth  song. 

Page  10.     I  remember  the  village  near  the  Escaut, 
From  which  one  saw  the  great  boats 
Pass  like  a  dream  plumed  with  wind 
And  marvellous  with  sails. 
Evening  in  procession  under  the  stars. 


Appendix  A  329 

THE  KITCHEN 

Page  14.  The  threshold  of  the  kitchen  was  old  and  split. 
The  hearth  shone  like  a  red  puddle,  and  its  flames, 
incessantly  gnawing  at  the  back  plate,  had  eaten  into 
it  an  obscene  subject  in  melted  iron. 

The  fire  rejoiced  under  the  mantelpiece  which 
stretched  over  it  like  the  penthouse  roof  over  a  booth, 
and  the  bright  ornaments  of  wood,  of  copper,  of  lacquer 
upon  it  sparked  less  to  the  eyes  than  the  writhing 
coals. 

Rays  escaped  from  it  like  a  spray  of  emeralds,  and 
here — there — everywhere — gave  filHps  of  brilliance 
to  the  glass  jugs  and  glazed  platters.  To  see  the  sparks 
fall  upon  every  raised  surface,  one  would  have  said  — 
into  such  particles  did  the  fire  crumble  itself  —  that 
the  sun  had  been  winnowed  through  a  leaded  window. 

LONDON 

Page  18.  And  this  London  of  brass  and  bronze,  my  soul, 
where  iron  plates  clash  under  sheds,  where  sails  go 
forth  without  Notre  Dame  for  star  —  go  forth,  away, 
toward  unknown  hazards.  Sooty,  smoky  stations, 
where  gas  weeps  its  distant  silver  melancholies  to  roads 
of  lightning ;  where  bored  animals  yawn  at  the  hour 
which,  immensely  mournful,  tolls  from  Westminster. 
And  these  embankments,  infinite  with  fatal  lanterns  — 
Fates  whose  spindles  plunge  into  darkness  —  and 
these  drowned  sailors,  under  the  petals  of  mud 
flowers  where  the  flame  throws  its  light.  And  these 
shawls  and  these  gestures  of  drunken  v/omen,  and 


330  Six  French  Poets 

these  alcohols  of  golden  letters  up  to  the  roofs,  and  all 
at  once  death  in  the  midst  of  these  crowds. 

O  my  soul  of  the  evening,  this  black  London  which 
drags  through  you  ! 

THE  WINDMILL 

Page  ig.  The  windmill  turns  in  the  depths  of  the  evening, 
very  slowly  it  turns,  against  a  sad  and  melancholy 
sky.  It  turns,  and  turns,  and  its  wine-coloured  sail 
is  infinitely  sad,  and  feeble,  and  heavy,  and  tired. 

Since  dawn  its  arms  —  pleading,  reproachful  — 
have  stretched  out  and  fallen ;  and  now  again  they 
fall,  far  ofif  in  the  darkening  air  and  absolute  silence 
of  extinguished  nature. 

Sick  with  winter,  the  day  drowses  to  sleep  upon 
the  villages ;  the  clouds  are  weary  of  their  gloomy 
travels ;  and  along  the  copses  where  shadows  are 
gathering,  the  wheel-tracks  fade  away  to  a  dead  hori- 
zon. Some  cabins  of  beech  logs  squat  miserably  in 
a  circle  about  a  colourless  pond ;  a  copper  lamp  hangs 
from  the  ceiling  and  throws  a  patina  of  fire  over  wall 
and  window.  And  in  the  immense  plain,  by  the  side 
of  the  sleeping  stream  —  wretched,  miserable  hovels  ! 
—  they  fix,  with  the  poor  eyes  of  their  ragged  window- 
panes,  the  old  windmill  which  turns,  and  —  weary  — 
turns  and  dies. 

THE   DEAD 

Page  21.        In  its  dress  of  the  colour  of  gall  and  poison,  the 
corpse  of  my  reason  trails  upon  the  Thames. 


Appendix  A  -531 

Bronze  bridges,  where  wagons  clank  with  intermi- 
nable noises  of  hinges,  and  sails  of  dark  boats,  let  their 
shadows  fall  upon  it.  With  no  movement  of  hands 
over  its  clock  face,  a  great  belfry,  masked  with  red, 
gazes  at  it  as  though  at  some  one  immensely  sad  and 
dead. 

My  reason  is  dead  from  too  much  knowledge,  from  a 
too  great  desire  to  shape  the  motive  of  every  being  and 
every  thing,  and  place  it  upon  a  black  granite  pedestal. 
It  died  atrociously,  of  a  clever  poisoning ;  it  died  also 
of  a  mad  dream  of  an  absurd  and  red  empire.  On  the 
illuminated  evening  of  a  festival,  when  it  felt  this 
triumph  float,  like  eagles,  over  its  head,  its  nerves 
gave  way.  It  died  when  it  could  no  more  feel  ardour 
and  aching  desires.  And  it  killed  itself,  infinitely 
exhausted. 

All  down  the  length  of  mournful  walls,  the  length  of 
iron  factories  where  hammers  boom  like  thunder,  it 
trails  to  the  funeral. 

There  are  wharves  and  barracks,  always  wharves 
with  lanterns  —  slow  and  motionless  spinners  of  the 
dim  gold  of  their  lights.  There  are  the  drearinesses 
of  stones,  a  brick  house,  a  black  jail,  whose  windows, 
like  dull  eyelids,  open  to  the  evening  fog.  There  are 
great  insane  dockyards,  full  of  dismantled  ships  and 
yards  quartered  against  a  sky  of  crucifixions. 


332  Six  French  Poets 

In  its  dress  of  dead  jewels,  which  celebrates  the 
hour  of  purple  at  the  horizon,  the  corpse  of  my  reason 
trails  upon  the  Thames. 

It  goes  toward  the  perils  in  the  depths  of  shadow 
and  fog,  to  the  long  hollow  sound  of  the  tolling  of 
heavy  bells  breaking  their  wings  at  the  corners  of 
towers.  Leaving  unsatisfied  behind  it  the  immense 
city  of  life,  it  goes  toward  the  black  unknown,  to 
sleep  in  the  graves  of  evening,  far  away,  where  the 
slow  and  powerful  waves,  opening  their  endless  cav- 
erns, swallow  the  dead  forever. 

Page  25.  In  a  wide  flash  of  lightning  through  the  mists,  an 
avenue  suddenly  opens ;  and  Saint  George,  fermenting 
with  gold,  with  plumes  and  froth  at  his  bridleless 
horse's  white  breast,  descends.  The  diamond  trap- 
pings make  of  his  fall  the  triumphal  road  for  Heaven's 
pity  to  come  to  Earth. 

THE   RAIN 

Page  28.     Long  like  threads  without  end,  the  long  rain 
Interminably,  across  the  grey  day, 
Streaks  the  green  window-panes  with  its  long  grey 

threads, 
Endlessly,  the  rain, 
The  long  rain, 
The  rain. 

Since  yesterday  evening  it  has  ravelled  itself  so, 
Out  of  the  rotten  rags  hanging 


Appendix  A  333 

From  the  solemn  and  black  sky. 

It  stretches  itself,  patiently  —  slowly  — 

Upon  the  roads, 

Since  yesterday  evening  —  upon  the  roads  and  lanes. 

Continually. 

Along  the  miles 

Which  go  from  the  fields  to  the  suburbs, 

By  ways  interminably  winding, 

Pass  the  teams  with  arching  hoods  — 

Toiling,  sweating,  smoking  — 

Like  a  funeral  train  seen  in  profile ; 

In  the  straight  ruts, 

Parallel  for  such  a  distance  that  at  night  they  seem 

to  join  the  heavens. 
The  water  drips  for  hours ; 
And  the  trees  weep,  and  the  houses, 
Soaked  as  they  are  by  the  long  rain, 
Tenaciously,  indefinitely. 

Through  their  rotten  dikes 

The  rivers  burst  over  the  meadows 

Where  the  drowned  grain  floats ; 

The  wind  slaps  alders  and  walnut  trees. 

Ominously,  half -submerged  in  water, 

The  great,  black  oxen  bellow  to  the  tortured  heavens ; 

Evening  comes  with  its  shadows. 

And  the  plains  and  the  coppices  are  clogged  with  them, 

And  always  there  is  the  rain, 

The  long  rain. 

Fine  and  dense  like  soot. 


334  •^^^  French  Poets 


The  long  rain, 

The  rain  —  and  its  identical  threads 

And  its  systematic  nails 

Weave  the  shroud  of  destitution 

Mesh  by  mesh, 

For  the  houses  and  the  enclosures 

Of  the  grey  old  villages ; 

Linens  and  rosaries  of  rags 

Which  ravel  out 

All  down  the  upright  beams ; 

Blue  pigeon-houses  glued  to  the  roof ; 

Windows  whose  dilapidated  panes 

Have  a  plaster  of  brown  paper ; 

Dwellings  where  the  symmetrical  gutters 

Form  into  crosses  above  the  stone  gables ; 

Windmills  planted,  uniform  and  dull, 

Each  on  its  hill,  like  horns ; 

Belfries  and  neighbouring  chapels, 

The  rain, 

The  long  rain. 

Assassinates  them  during  the  Winter. 

The  rain 

The  long  rain,  with  its  long  grey  threads, 

With  its  hair  of  water,  and  its  wrinkles. 

The  long  rain 

Of  old  countries, 

Eternal  and  torpid. 


Appendix  A  335 

THE  MILLER 

Page  31.  He  was  being  buried,  the  old  miller  of  the  black 
mill,  buried  in  Winter,  on  an  evening  of  rough  cold  and 
bitter  North  wind,  in  a  ground  of  cinders  and  hem- 
lock plants. 

The  daylight  darted  its  deceiving  brilliance  at  the 
grave-digger's  shovel.  A  dog  wandered  about  near 
the  grave,  and  barked  at  the  brightness. 

At  each  dig  the  shovel  changed  like  a  mirror, 
shone,  took  hold,  and  buried  itself  in  the  disturbed 
earth.  The  sun  went  down  beneath  suspicious 
shadows. 

Against  a  background  of  sky,  the  grave-digger,  like 
an  enormous  insect,  seemed  to  fight  with  fear.  The 
shovel  trembled  in  his  hands,  the  ground  opened  in 
spite  of  him,  and  nothing  filled  up  the  hole  which, 
like  the  night,  widened  in  front  of  him. 

In  the  village  yonder,  no  one  had  lent  two  sheets  to 
the  dead. 

In  the  village  yonder,  no  one  had  said  a  prayer. 

In  the  village  yonder,  no  one  had  rung  the  passing 
bell  for  the  dead. 

In  the  village  yonder,  no  one  had  wanted  to  nail 
the  coffin. 


336  Six  French  Poets 

And  the  houses  and  cottages  along  the  roads  facing 
the  cemetery,  all  had  their  shutters  closed  so  as  to  see 
nothing. 

The  grave-digger  felt  himself  alone  with  this  dead 
man  who  had  no  shroud,  for  whom  every  one  felt 
hate  and  fear  in  their  blood. 

Upon  his  hill,  gloomy  with  evening,  the  old  miller 
of  the  black  mill  had  been  used  to  live  in  harmony 
with  space  and  distance,  and  the  mad  flight  of  tem- 
pests streaming  from  the  flapping  mane  of  the  North 
winds  ;  for  long  he  had  listened  to  what  the  dark  and 
golden  mouths  of  the  stars  reveal  to  those  who  are 
attentive  to  the  eternal ;  the  grey  desert  of  austere 
heather  had  ringed  his  eyes  with  the  mystery  by  which 
things  make  souls  aware  of  them,  and  speak  to  them 
and  counsel  them;  the  great  currents  which  flow 
through  everything  that  Hves  had  entered  his  mind 
with  such  power,  that,  in  his  isolated  and  profound 
soul,  this  simple  peasant  had  felt  the  movement  and 
fermentation  of  the  world. 

The  oldest  man  did  not  know  how  long  it  was  that 
he  had  been  hiding  yonder,  far  from  the  village,  watch- 
ing the  flight  of  birds  and  their  joumeyings,  and  the 
signs  of  flame  in  the  clouds. 

He  awed  by  the  silence  of  which  he  had  noiselessly 
woven  his  existence;  he  awed  still  further  by  the 
golden  eyes  of  his  windmill,  shining  suddenly  at 
night. 


Appendix  A  -i^^n 

No  one  would  have  known  of  his  agony  and  death, 
were  it  not  for  the  four  wings  which  he  turned,  like 
eternal  supplications,  to  the  unknown ;  were  it  not 
that  one  morning  they  were  absolutely  rigid,  black 
and  immovable  like  a  cross  above  a  destiny. 

The  grave-digger  saw  the  surging  shadows  increase 
like  crowds,  and  the  village  and  its  shut  windows  fade 
into  the  distance  and  disappear. 

The  universal  disquiet  peopled  the  soHtude  with 
cries ;  in  black  and  brown  veils  the  wind  passed  by  as 
though  it  were  some  one ;  all  the  vagueness  of  hostile 
horizons  became  fixed  in  feverish  rustlings,  until  the 
moment  when,  with  wild  eyes,  throwing  his  shovel  no 
matter  where,  with  the  multiple  arms  of  night  in 
menaces  behind  him,  like  a  thief  he  fled. 

Then  came  silence,  absolute,  all  about.  In  the  riven 
earth  the  hole  appeared  gigantic,  nothing  moved  any 
more;  and,  alone,  the  insatiable  plains  in  their 
Northern  immensity  of  shadow  absorbed  the  dead 
man,  whose  life  had  been  rendered  limitless  and 
exalted  to  the  infinite,  by  their  mystery. 

THE  BURNING  HAYRICKS 

Pagejs.  The  plain,  in  the  dark  evening  distance,  is  all 
alight,  and  the  alarm-bells  break  and  jangle  to  the  four 
walls  of  the  horizon. 


338  Six  French  Poets 

—  A  hayrick  burns  !  — 

By  way  of  the  roads,  the  crowd  —  by  way  of  the 
villages,  the  crowd  surges;  and  in  the  yards  the 
watch-dogs  howl. 

—  A  hayrick  bums !  — 

The  flame  roars,  and  breaks,  and  pounds,  tears  itself 
into  tatters  which  it  waves,  or,  sinuous  and  tailed,  un- 
rolls itself  to  streaming  hair  —  eager,  slow  —  then 
suddenly  calms  and  lets  go,  and  dodges  and  disap- 
pears —  or  leaps  up  again  :  and  now,  bright,  of  mud 
and  gold,  it  veers  in  a  plimae  over  the  black  sky. 

—  When  suddenly  in  the  distance  another  hayrick 
catches  fire  !  — 

It  is  enormous  —  like  a  red,  shaken  bundle  of  sul- 
phurous serpents.  The  glare  !  —  it  passes  over  acres 
of  land,  and  farms,  and  villages,  where,  from  window- 
pane  to  window-pane,  a  red  clot  moves. 

—  A  hayrick  burns  !  — 

The  fields?  They  become  limitless  with  terrors; 
the  foliage  of  the  woods  lifts  itself  up  in  light  over  the 
marshes  and  the  ploughed  lands;  rearing  stallions 
whinny  at  the  terror ;  enormous  flights  of  birds  be- 
come dazed  and  fall  into  the  flames  —  and  stifled  cries 


Appendix  A  339 

rise  from  the  ground ;  and  it  is  death,  death  bran- 
dished and  flung  up  again  by  the  lifted  arms  of  the 
conflagration. 

And  the  silence  after  fear  —  when  suddenly,  over 
there,  formidably,  in  the  weary  evening,  a  new  fire 
fills  the  deeps  of  the  twilight. 

—  A  hayrick  burns  !  — 

At  the  cross-roads,  haggard  men  make  bewildered 
gestures,  children  cry,  and  old  men  lift  their  withered 
arms  to  the  flames  waving  like  banners.  While  far- 
ther off,  obstinately  silent,  madmen,  with  stupor  in 
their  eyes  —  look  on. 

—  A  hayrick  burns !  — 

The  air  is  red,  the  sky  seems  to  have  died,  ominously, 
under  the  shut  eyes  of  the  stars.  The  wind  drives 
gold  pebbles  before  it  in  a  tearing  of  veils.  The  fire 
becomes  a  clamour  howling  in  flames  to  the  echoes, 
to  the  distance,  to  the  other  shore,  where  suddenly 
the  far  side  of  the  river  lights  up  like  a  dream.  The 
whole  plain  ?  It  is  a  live  coal,  an  illusion,  blood  and 
gold  —  and  the  tempest  sweeps  on  the  passing  death  of 
the  heavens  so  violently  that  at  the  confines  of  the 
terror  the  entire  sky  seems  to  have  disappeared. 


340  Six  French  Poets 

THE   STOCK   EXCHANGE 

Pdgf  39-  The  enormous  street  and  its  quadrangular  houses 
border  the  crowd  and  dike  it  with  their  granite,  eyed 
with  windows  and  porches,  in  whose  panes  aureoled 
evenings  shine  farewell. 

Like  an  upright  torso  of  stone  and  metal,  contain- 
ing in  its  unclean  mystery  the  beating  and  panting 
heart  of  the  world,  the  monument  of  gold  stands 
in  the  darkness. 

About  it,  black  banks  lift  their  pediments  supported 
by  the  arms  of  bronze  Hercules,  whose  great  weary 
muscles  seem  to  be  holding  strong-t)Oxes  up  to  victory. 

The  square,  from  which  it  erects  its  battleground, 
sucks  in  the  fever  and  the  tumult  of  each  wave  of  pas- 
sion towards  its  occult  lover  —  the  square  and  its 
open  spaces,  and  its  walls,  and  its  numberless  gas- 
jets,  which  make  the  clusters  of  shadows  and  lights 
upon  the  sidewiUks  stir. 

How  many  dreams,  like  red  fares,  intermingle  their 
flames  and  their  eddies  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 
of  the  mad  palace !  Monstrous  and  culpable  gain 
tightens  itself  into  knots,  and  its  desire  sows  and 
propagates  itself,  going  out  to  inflame  neighbouring 
vanities  from  door  to  door,  through  the  town.  Heavy 
counters  grumble  like  a  storm,  gross  profusions  be- 
come jealous  and  rage,  and  tempests  of  failures,  sud- 


Appendix  A  341 

denly,  with  brutal  blows,  beat  and  overturn  the  great 
monumental  men  of  the  town. 

At  a  given  moment  of  the  afternoon,  the  fever  in- 
creases still  more,  and  penetrates  the  building,  and 
ferments  in  the  walls.  One  almost  beUeves  one  sees 
it  quickening  itself  at  the  motionless  flame-flowered 
lamps,  running  from  banister  to  banister,  assembling 
itself,  and  bursting  out  and  crackhng,  upon  the 
landings  and  the  marble  of  the  stairways. 

At  the  mirage  of  a  pale  hope,  a  rekindled  fury 
mounts  through  the  funnel  of  noise  and  smoke  from 
those  fighting  by  theft  below.  Dry  tongues,  piercing 
looks,  contradictory  gestures,  and  brains  crossed  by 
whirlwinds  of  millions,  exchange  their  fear  and  their 
terror  there.  Haste  simulates  audacity,  and  audaci- 
ties surpass  themselves ;  fingers  scratch  the  insanity 
of  their  anguish  upon  slates ;  cynically,  a  discount 
which  breaks  a  people  at  the  other  end  of  the  world, 
illuminates  it ;  chimeras  are  winged  with  light ;  luck 
flees  or  over-abounds ;  deals  concluded,  deals  broken 
off,  struggle  and  clash  together  in  disputes ;  the  air 
bums  —  and  paradoxical  figures,  in  flat  packages,  in 
heavy  bundles,  are  thrown  back,  and  jolted,  and 
shaken,  and  worried  in  these  tumults  until  their  weary 
sums,  masses  against  masses,  are  broken. 

On  those  days  when  catastrophes  happen,  Death 
scrolls  them  over  with  sviicides,  and  failures  crumble 
to  ruins  which  flame  in  exalted  obsequies.     But  the 


342  Six  French  Poets 

same  evening,  in  the  pale  hours,  wills  revive  in  fever, 
and  the  sly  fury  takes  hold  again  as  before. 

People  betray,  smile,  gnaw,  and  encompass  other 
deaths.  Hate  hums  Hke  a  machine  about  those 
whom  it  assassinates.  Men  of  needy  fortune  are 
robbed  with  authority.  Honour  is  mixed  with  swin- 
dling to  lure  even  nations  into  the  universal  madness, 
the  hunt  for  the  burning  and  infamous  gold. 

Oh,  gold  !  In  the  distance,  Hke  towers  in  the  clouds, 
like  towers  upon  the  steps  of  illusion !  Enormous 
gold !  Like  towers  in  the  distance,  with  millions  of 
arms  stretched  towards  it,  with  gestures  and  calls 
in  the  night,  and  the  muttering  of  the  universal  prayer, 
from  end  to  end  of  the  horizons  of  the  world  ! 

In  the  distance,  cubes  of  gold  upon  triangles  of  gold, 
and  all  about,  celebrated  fortunes  mounting  upon  the 
scaffoldings  of  algebras. 

Gold  !  —  to  eat  and  drink  gold  !  —  and,  even  more 
ferocious  than  the  rage  for  gold,  the  faith  in  the 
mysterious  gamble  and  its  dark  and  hazardous  chances, 
and  the  certainty  of  its  arbitrary  designs  to  restore 
the  old  destiny.  Play,  terrible  axis,  where  future 
passion  will  turn  desperately  about  adventure  for 
the  sole  pleasure  of  anomaly,  for  the  sole  need  of 
bestiality  and  frenzy,  over  there,  where  laws  of  terror 
cross  with  supreme  disorders  1 


Appendix  A  343 

Like  an  upright  torso  of  stone  and  metal,  containing 
in  its  unclean  mystery  the  beating  and  panting  heart 
of  the  world,  the  monument  of  gold  stands  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

GET  YOU  GONE 

Page  46.        Get  you  gone,  get  you  gone, 

The  entire  inn  is  for  those  who  come. 

It  belongs  to  us,  it  belongs  to  us. 
For  very  nearly  three  hundred  years. 
It  belongs  to  us,  it  belongs  to  us, 
From  the  outer  door  with  its  heavy  bolts 
Up  to  the  very  chimney  tops. 

Get  you  gone,  get  you  gone, 

The  entire  inn  is  for  those  who  come. 

We  know  it  well,  we  know  it  well, 

Every  decay  and  every  crack. 

But  it  is  we  alone  who  pretend 

To  put  new  plaster  instead  of  the  old 

From  the  ground-sills  up  to  the  edge  of  the  roof. 

Get  you  gone,  get  you  gone, 

The  entire  inn  is  for  those  who  come. 

We  venerate  those  who  are  dead. 
Lying  in  their  coffins  of  oak ; 
We  envy  those  already  dead 


344  "Si^  French  Poets 

Unconscious  of  the  cries  of  hate 

Which  leap  and  bound  from  plain  to  plain. 

Get  you  gone,  get  you  gone, 

The  entire  inn  is  for  those  who  come. 

It  is  our  right,  it  is  our  right, 

To  put  an  Eagle  on  our  sign ; 

It  is  our  right,  it  is  our  right. 

To  own,  according  to  the  law. 

More  than  we  need  of  barley  and  rye. 

Get  you  gone,  get  you  gone, 

Gestures  and  words  mean  nothing  now. 

Get  you  gone,  get  you  gone, 

And  understand. 
It  is  our  hunger  makes  our  right ! 

ALBERT  SAMAIN 

■^og^  73-  My  soul  is  an  Infanta  in  robes  of  state,  whose  exile, 
eternal,  monarchical,  is  reflected  in  the  great,  empty 
mirrors  of  some  old  Escurial,  like  a  galley  forgotten 
at  its  anchorage. 

Two  Scotch  greyhounds,  with  melancholy  eyes, 
stretched  out  magnificently  at  the  feet  of  her  arm- 
chair, hunt,  when  it  pleases  her,  symbolic  animals  in 
the  forest  of  Dreams  and  Enchantment. 


Appendix  A  345 

Her  favourite  page,  who  is  called  "It-was-Once," 
reads  bewitching  poems  to  her  softly,  while  immovable, 
a  tulip  in  her  fingers,  she  listens  to  their  mystery 
dying  within  her. 

The  park  which  surroimds  her  spreads  out  its  foli- 
age, its  marbles,  its  basins,  its  balustrades ;  and  she 
intoxicates  herself  gravely  upon  the  illustrious  dreams 
which  noble  horizons  hold  for  us. 

She  is  there,  resigned  and  gentle,  and  without  sur- 
prise; knowing  too  much  to  struggle  where  all  is 
fataUty;  and  feeling,  despite  some  inborn  disdain, 
sensible  to  pity,  as  the  wave  is  to  the  breeze. 

She  is  there,  resigned,  and  gentle  in  her  sobs,  more 
sombre  only  when  she  evokes  the  dream  of  some 
Armada,  shadowed  by  the  eternal  falsehood,  and  so 
many  beautiful  hopes  asleep  under  the  waters. 

In  the  heavy  purple  evenings  when  her  pride  sighs. 
Van  Dyck  portraits,  with  their  long,  pure  fingers, 
pale  in  black  velvet  against  the  tarnishing  gold  of  the 
walls,  with  their  airs  of  greatness  dead,  make  her 
dream  of  empire. 

The  old,  golden  illusions  have  dissipated  her 
mourning,  and  in  the  visions  which  cheat  her  lassitude, 
suddenly  a  ray  —  of  glory,  of  sunlight  —  lights  up 
within  her  all  the  rubies  of  her  pride. 


346  Six  French  Poets 

But  she  calms  these  fevers  with  a  sad  smile ;  and 
dreading  the  crowd  with  its  iron  tumults,  she  hearkens 
to  life  —  in  the  distance  —  like  the  sea  .  .  .  and  the 
secret  deepens  upon  her  lips. 

No  quiver  troubles  the  pale  water  of  her  eyes, 
where  sits  the  veiled  spirit  of  dead  cities ;  and  through 
the  apartments,  with  their  silently  opening  doors,  she 
wanders,  enchanting  herself  with  mysterious  words. 

The  ineffectual  waters  of  fountains  in  the  distance 
fall  —  fall  —  and  pale  at  the  casement,  a  tuhp  in  her 
fingers,  she  is  there,  reflected  in  the  mirrors  of  old  days, 
like  a  galley  forgotten  at  its  anchorage. 

My  Soul  is  an  Infanta  in  robes  of  state. 

SUMMER  HOURS 

■Pcige  75.        Bring  golden  crystals. 

And  glasses  the  colour  of  dreams ; 
That  our  love  may  be  prolonged 
In  exasperated  perfumes. 

Roses !    Roses  still ! 

I  adore  them,  even  to  pain. 

They  have  the  melancholy  attraction 

Of  things  which  give  death. 


Appendix  A  347 

The  golden  summer  streams  into  the  goblets ; 
The  juice  of  the  peaches  which  you  are  cutting 
Spouts  over  your  snowy  breast. 

The  park  is  dark,  like  a  gulf  .  .  . 

And  in  my  stormy  heart 

Is  a  misery  of  sweetness  which  suffers. 

MUSIC  ON   THE  WATER 

Page  76.        Oh !  Listen  to  the  symphony ; 
Nothing  is  so  sweet  as  an  agony 
In  music,  which  indefinitely 
Comes  from  a  vaporous  distance. 

The  night  is  drunk  with  lassitude 
And  our  hearts,  freed  from  the  rude 
Monotonous  effort  of  living,  are  wooed 
To  fade  and  die  in  a  dreamy  trance. 

Let  us  slide  between  the  water  and  sky, 
Let  us  slide  under  the  far-off,  high 
Moon ;  my  whole  soul,  the  world  passed  by, 
Has  sought  a  refuge  in  your  eyes. 

I  watch  their  pupils  in  the  moon, 
Under  the  wailing  string-notes  swoon, 
Like  supernatural  flowers  in  tune 
To  beams  of  graceful  melodies. 


348  Six  French  Poets 

Oh  !   Listen  to  the  symphony ; 
Nothing  is  so  sweet  as  the  agony 
Of  lip  to  lip  united  by 
Music  prolonged  indefinitely. 

OCTOBER 

Page  77.  October  is  sweet.  —  Pilgrim  Winter  goes  forward 
to  the  sky  where,  startled,  the  last  swallow  is  flying. 
Let  us  dream  .  .  .  the  fire  springs  up  and  the  North 
wind  croons.  Let  us  dream  .  .  .  the  fire  sleeps 
under  its  ermine  cinders. 

The  transparent,  rose-coloured  lampshade  shines. 
The  window  is  black  under  the  monotonous  downpour. 
Oh!  the  sweet  "remember"  in  the  chamber  of 
Autumn,  where  from  dead  pier  glasses  the  soul  dif- 
fuses itself. 

The  town  is  far  away.  Nothing  —  save  a  muffled 
sound  of  carriages  which  dies,  sadly,  in  the  thick 
folds  of  the  curtains  .  .  .  Let  us  fashion  exquisite 
dreams  upon  miniatures. 

In  mauve  distances  of  a  faded  sweetness  my  soul 
loses  itself,  and  the  beribboned  hour  strikes  a  hundred 
years  from  the  superannuated  mantel-clock. 


Appendix  A  349 

NOCTURNE 

Page  78.  Summer  Night.  —  Under  the  sky  of  lapis-lazuli, 
the  enchanted  park  bathes  in  its  soft  shadows.  The 
flowers  dream,  love  perfumes  itself  at  their  corollas. 
Quietly  the  moon  mounts  into  the  pale  sky. 

There  is  a  fete  at  Bergamo,  this  evening,  at  the 
Lanzoli  palace.  Entwined  couples  descend  from 
gondolas.  The  ball  opens,  starred  with  pink  cande- 
labra. Flutes  and  horns,  —  the  orchestra  is  conducted 
by  Lulli. 

Madrigals,  among  the  flowered  dresses,  offer 
their  sublimated  insipidities  with  cloying  sweetness. 
And  over  the  gold  glazing  of  the  transparent  floors, 
gossips  of  the  Regency,  exquisitely  elderly,  detail  the 
advised  languor  of  gavottes  to  the  perfumed  rhythm 
of  dying  fans. 

THE   FORTUNATE   ISLE 

Page  jg.  Tell  me,  Pretty  Band, 

My  soul  is  melancholy, 
Tell  me,  I  supplicate  you, 

Where  it  is. 
Is  it  in  Venice,  in  Florence  ? 
Is  it  in  the  country  of  Hope  ? 
Is  it  in  the  Ile-de-France  ? 

Who  knows  ? 


350  Six  French  Poets 

Come,  you  will  see  shepherdesses, 
And  sylvan  marchionesses, 
The  white  sheep  of  china  tables. 

And  more, 
Birds  which  sing  and  birds  which  nest, 
Names  like  Lindor  and  Angdle, 
And  roses  at  the  margins  of 

The  wells. 

Come,  you  will  see  Lucindas, 

Agneses,  and  Rosalindas, 

Festooned  with  pearls  brought  from  the  Indies, 

Holding 
A  parroquet  on  the  forefinger. 
With  a  ruffle  for  a  collar. 
And  a  great  fan  of  ostrich  feathers 

Hanging. 

Irises  and  fair  Estelles, 

In  hats  of  floating,  filmy  lace. 

Dream  near  the  silver,  fine  cascades 

Which  weep. 
And  softly  closing  their  great  wings. 
The  butterflies  in  love  with  them 
Become  at  once  unfaithful  to 

The  flowers. 

United  in  a  close  embrace 
Lovers  wander  free  from  fear 
About  the  windings  of  the  secret 
Labyrinth. 


Appendix  A  351 

Over  the  diaphanous  garden  hovers 
A  half -silence,  no  rumour  lingers 
But  dies  and  leaves  the  strolling  lovers 
In  peace. 

It  is  that  very  Day  Divine, 
Drawn  by  dreams  over  the  grass, 
That  grass  which  seems  to  be  a  little 

Faded. 
Loves  there  are  quite  fulfilled, 
Amber  and  emerald  eyes  are  stilled 
Proposals  without  haste  are  frilled 

Over  an  avowal. 

Evening  falls  .  .  .     The  hour  is  soft, 
And  draws  away  with  even  feet 
Hardly  resting  on  the  sweet 

Moss. 
An  indecisive  light  persists 
And  pensive  twilight  wreathes  its  mists, 
Opens  its  eyes  like  amethysts 

Moistened. 

Swans  sail  about  in  troupes ; 

We  lunch  upon  the  grass  in  groups. 

Glasses  clink  against  the  glasses 

Of  finest  gold. 
Sevres  are  the  plates  from  which  we  eat ; 
And  madrigals,  so  arch,  so  sweet. 
Sugar  the  singing  lips,  a  treat 

Endless  and  old. 


352  Six  French  Poets 


Afternoon  denies  those  joys ; 
Daylight  intoxication  cloys, 
It  fades  into  an  infinite 

Lassitude. 
Smoke  from  cottage  chimneys  rises 
In  the  darkening  sky,  surprises 
Glow  of  stars,  with  silver  light. 

Dreams. 

Lovers  whisper  what  they  please, 
Women's  eyes  no  longer  tease 
But  are  faithful,  and  one  sees 

Their  souls. 
Two  and  two,  like  angels  roaming 
In  some  painted  Missal's  gloaming, 
Wistful  kisses  given,  taken. 

Couples  pass. 

To  the  sound  of  music  slow, 
Lovers  pace  there  to  and  fro, 
Steps  lag  slower,  careless,  so 

They  go. 
Upon  the  earth  the  heavens  float, 
A  solitary  evening  note 
Tinkles  from  the  Angelus 

Over  Cytherea. 


Appendix  A  35-5 

A   DEAD   CITY 

Page  82.  Vague,  lost  in  the  depths  of  monotonous  sands,  the 
city  of  other  days,  without  towers  or  ramparts, 
sleeps  the  last  sleep  of  old  Babylons,  under  the  white 
winding-sheet  of  her  sparse  marbles. 

Formerly  she  reigned ;  upon  her  strong  walls  Victory 
extended  her  two  iron  wings.  All  the  people  of  Asia 
besieged  her  hundred  gates ;  and  her  great  stairways 
descended  toward  the  sea  .  .  . 

Empty  now  and  forever  silent,  stone  by  stone,  she 
dies,  under  the  reverent  moon,  close  to  her  old  river, 
exhausted  like  herself. 

And  alone,  in  the  midst  of  disaster,  an  elephant 
of  bronze,  still  upright  upon  the  summit  of  a  broken 
doorway,  tragically  lifts  its  trunk  to  the  stars. 

THE   CORONATION 
Page  83.        With  the  bronze  voices  of  its  twin  towers,  Notre- 
Dame  announced  the  apotheosis  ready  of  fulfihnent. 
In  the  distance  great  cannon  boomed ;   and  flags  bel- 
Hed  out,  shivering,  under  the  pride  of  the  festival. 

The  Emperor  bowed  himself,  bare-headed  and  with 
joined  hands,  and  in  the  glare  of  torches  the  Pope  ap- 
peared, holding  in  his  fingers,  which  gHttered  with 
rings,  the  Crown  bearing  the  Latin  cross  on  its  apex. 

2A 


354  'S'^^  French  Poets 

"My  son!"  said  the  Pontiff  .  .  .  then  the  organ 
was  hushed.  Over  every  bowed  forehead  ran  a  shiver, 
like  the  sudden  beating  of  an  immense  wing ; 

And  nothing  could  be  heard,  O  triumphant  Caesar, 
in  the  nave  where  an  august  silence  hovered,  but  an 
old  woman,  on  her  knees,  weeping  for  her  child. 

AFFECTION 

Page  84.  I  adore  the  indecisive  —  sounds,  frail  colours,  every- 
thing which  trembles,  undulates,  shimmers,  and  glis- 
tens, hair  and  eyes,  water,  leaves,  silk,  and  the  spirit- 
uality of  slender  forms. 

Rhymes  rubbing  up  against  each  other  like  turtle- 
doves ;  smoke  where  dreams  turn  in  spirals ;  the  twilit 
room,  where  Her  profile  fades  into  darkness,  and  the 
caress  of  Her  supernatural  hands. 

The  heavenly  hour  of  coaxing  lips,  the  soul  inclined 
as  under  a  weight  of  delight,  the  soul  which  dies  like 
a  faded  rose, 

And  some  heart  of  chaste  shadow,  perfiuned  with 
mystery,  where  a  mystic  and  solitary  love,  like  the 
ruby  flame  of  a  hanging  lamp,  watches  night  and  day. 

Page  Sj.     I  dream  of  soft  verses  and  intimate  branchings  and 
entwinings, 
Of  verses  which  brush  against  the  soul  like  wings. 


Appendix  A  355 

Of  pale-hued  verses  whose  fluid  meaning  streams  wide, 
As  under  the  water  streams  OpheHa's  hair. 

Of  silent  verses,  without  rhythm  and  without  plot, 
Where  the  noiseless  rhyme  slips  past  like  an  oar. 

Of  verses  of  an  ancient  stuff,  exhausted, 
Impalpable  like  sound  and  cloud. 

Of  verses  of  Autumn  evenings,  enchanting  the  hours 
With  the  feminine  rite  of  minor  syllables. 

Of  verses  of  evenings  of  love,  enervated  with  verbena, 
In  which  the  soul  —  barely  —  exquisitely  —  feels  a 
a  caress. 

And  which,  the  whole  length  of  nerves  bathed  in  caress- 
ing waves. 
Die  forever  in  feline  swoonings. 
Like  a  perfume  dissolved  in  a  closed  warmness. 

Viols  of  gold  and  pianissim'  amorose. 

I  dream  of  soft  verses  dying  like  roses. 

GETTING   READY   THE   REPAST 

Page  88.  Quit  your  needle  and  your  linen,  my  girl,  the  master 
will  soon  be  here.  Put  the  clear,  flowered  china,  and 
the  bright  glass,  on  the  oak  table  with  its  new  cloth 
with  the  shining  folds.     In  the  cup  with  the  handle 


356  Six  French  Poets 

which  curves  like  a  swan's  neck,  upon  vine  leaves, 
arrange  your  chosen  fruits  —  peaches  with  their  virgin 
velvet  still  upon  them,  heavy  blue  grapes  mixed  with 
grapes  of  gold ;  and  see  that  all  the  baskets  are  filled 
with  nicely-cut  bread.  Then  shut  the  doors  and  drive 
out  the  bees  .  .  . 

The  sun  burns  outside,  and  the  wall  cooks.  Close 
the  shutters  and  make  it  almost  dark,  so  that  the 
room,  plunged  in  shadow,  is  all  perfumed  with  the 
fruits  on  the  table.  Now  go  and  draw  fresh  water 
in  the  court,  and  above  all,  be  careful  that  the  pitcher, 
when  you  bring  it  back,  keeps  a  light  vapour,  iced 
and  slowly  melting,  for  a  long  time  upon  its  sides. 

THE   BUBBLE 

Page  88.  In  the  court  where  the  fowls  are  clucking,  Bathyles, 
bending  over  a  basin,  puffs  into  a  straw.  With  a 
great  noise  the  soapy  water  froths,  and  boils,  and 
overflows.  The  child,  exhausting  himself  to  no  pur- 
pose, feels  a  salt  bitterness  on  his  lips.  Happily,  at 
last,  there  is  the  outline  of  a  bubble.  Conducted  with 
art,  it  lengthens,  widens,  and  finally  rounds  itself 
into  a  sparkling  globe.  The  child  continues  to  blow, 
and  the  bubble  keeps  on  growing.  It  has  the  hundred 
colours  of  the  prism  and  of  dawn,  and  in  its  thin  crys- 
tal sides  are  reflected  the  trees,  the  house,  the  road, 
and  the  horse.  Ready  to  take  flight,  marvellous,  it 
shines !  The  child  holds  his  breath,  and  the  bubble 
oscillates,  and  gently  rises  —  pale  green  and  transpar- 
ent pink  —  like  a  frail  shining  prodigy,  into  the  air ! 


Appendix  A  357 

It  rises  .  .  .     And  suddenly,  his  soul  still  dazzled, 
Bathyles  seeks  the  vanished  glory  in  vain. 


PANNYRE  OF  THE  GOLDEN  HEELS 

Page  8q.  In  the  noisy  room  a  silence  falls  ,  .  .  Pannyre  of 
the  golden  heels  comes  forward  to  dance.  She  is 
entirely  hidden  in  a  veil  of  a  thousand  folds.  With 
a  long,  silver  trill  the  flute  first  invites  her ;  she  starts 
forward,  intersects  her  steps,  and  with  a  slow  move- 
ment of  the  arms,  gives  a  bizarre  rhythm  to  the  sym- 
pathetic material,  which  stretches,  undulates,  bellies 
and  hollows,  and  at  last  spreads  itself  in  a  great  whirl- 
wind .  .  .  And  Pannyre  becomes  flower,  flame, 
butterfly!  Every  one  is  silent;  eyes  follow  her  in 
ecstasy.  Bit  by  bit  she  takes  fire  in  the  fury  of  the 
dance.  Always  she  turns:  quick!  quicker  still! 
The  flame,  in  the  glare  of  the  golden  torches,  reels  dis- 
tractedly !  .  .  .  Then,  sharply,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  she  stops ;  and  the  veil,  twining  about  her  in  a 
spiral,  suspended  in  its  course,  calms  its  long  folds,  and 
glued  to  her  pointed  breasts  and  polished  sides,  shows, 
in  a  divine  flash,  as  through  silky  and  flowing  water, 
Pannyre  standing  naked. 

WATTEAU 

Page  g2.  Above  the  great,  dark  woods,  the  shepherd's  star 
comes  out  .  .  .  Groups  upon  the  grass  in  the  mist 
.  .  .  Pizzicati  of  violins  .  .  .  Hands  linger  in 
hands,  the  sky  on  which  the  lovers  gaze  leaves  a  rose- 
coloured  reflection  in  the  water;  and  in  the  misty 
clearing  which  approaching  night  idealizes,  between 


358  Six  French  Poets 

Estelle  and  Cydalise,  passes  the  enamoured  shade  of 
Watteau. 

Watteau,  ideal  painter  of  the  Charming  Fete,  your 
frail  art  was  tender  and  gentle  as  a  sigh,  and  you 
gave  an  unknown  soul  to  Desire,  placing  it  at  the  feet 
of  Melancholy. 

Your  exquisite  shepherds  held  canes  of  gold  in  their 
fingers ;  your  shepherdesses,  not  without  a  some- 
what haughty  manner,  rambled  under  the  shade 
where  fountains  sang,  in  their  dresses  with  the  straight 
pleat  behind. 

Roses  died  in  the  warm,  bluish  air ;  hearts  opened  in 
the  shade  of  the  quiet  garden,  and  lips,  taking  kisses 
from  lips,  united  wistful  love  with  the  sweetness  of 
things. 

Pilgrims  go  to  the  Country  of  Ideals.  .  .  .  The 
golden  galley  abandons  the  shore ;  and  the  maiden  at 
the  prow,  pensive,  listens  to  the  sound  of  a  flute  dying 
away  in  the  distance  of  the  crystal  evening. 

Oh !  To  depart  with  them  on  an  evening  of  mys- 
tery !  O  Master,  to  live  one  evening  in  your  enchanted 
dream  !  The  sea  is  rose-coloured  ...  A  Summer 
breeze  sighs,  and  when  the  ship  approaches  a  silver 
shore 

The  moon  rises  softly  over  Cytherea. 


Appendix  A  359 

A  fan,  waving  unceasingly  to  the  intimate  rhythm 
of  avowals,  lifts  the  hair  from  the  forehead  with  each 
movement.  The  shadow  is  soft  .  .  .  Everything 
rests.  Agnes  smiles ;  Leander  places  his  violin  upon 
his  cloak ;  and  over  the  scented  dresses  and  over  the 
hands  of  the  lovers,  along  the  soft  branches,  floats  the 
divine  soul  of  Watteau. 

VERSAILLES 
I 

Page  g4.  0  Versailles,  why  does  the  thought  of  you  obsess 
me  on  this  faded  afternoon?  The  vehemence  of 
Summer  is  passing,  and  the  worn-out  season  is  coming 
towards  us. 

I  should  like  to  see  once  more,  for  a  whole  calm  day, 
your  green-blue  waters  strewn  with  red  leaves ;  and 
breathe  again,  on  a  gentle,  golden  evening,  your 
beauty  which  is  more  touching  at  the  decUne  of  the 
year. 

Here  are  your  coned  yews,  and  your  fat-cheeked 
Tritons,  your  patterned  gardens  where  Louis  comes 
no  more,  and  your  pomp  which  proclaims  plumes 
and  helmets. 

Like  a  great  lily  you  are  dying,  noble  and  sad,  with- 
out sound ;  the  old  water  slips  past  the  mouldy  lips 
of  your  basins  as  softly  as  a  sob  in  the  night. 


360  Six  French  Poets 

II 

Page  94.  Grand  manner.  Urbanity  of  ancient  customs.  High 
ceremonial.  Endless  reverences.  Crequi,  Fronsac, 
beautiful  names  glistening  with  satin.  Ducal  hands 
in  old  valendennes  lace. 

Royal  hands  upon  spinets.  Anthems  of  bishops 
before  Monseigneur  the  Dauphin.  Gestures  of  the 
minuet  and  hearts  of  fine  porcelain,  and  those  graces 
which  were  called  Austrian. 

Princesses  of  the  blood,  whose  state  sovd  the  cen- 
turies have  steeped  to  the  purest  of  castes.  Great 
lords  spangled  with  wit.     Marquises  of  Se\Tes  china. 

An  entire  world,  gallant,  lively,  brave,  exquisite  and 
silly,  with  its  slender  sword  at  the  angle  for  drawing, 
and,  above  all,  the  scorn  of  death,  like  a  flower,  at  the 
lips. 

Ill 

P*^  95-  ^ly  steps  have  stirred  up  btiried  enchantments. 
O  mirror  of  old  Saxe  in  which  the  Past  is  reflected 
.  .  .  Here  the  Queen,  listening  to  Zemire  and 
dreaming,  faimed  herself  because  the  nights  were 

vr=— n. 

O  visioi^  :  psrriers.  p-owder  and  patches ;  and  then, 
light  as  a  rerfune.  beautiful  as  a  smile,  it  is  the  air 
of  old  Fr3.r_:e  ~r.::h  evervthtr.?  here  breathes:  and 
al^avs  th:i  s-enetra.:::^  snell  o:  cox  .  .  . 


Appendix  A  361 

But  what  most  seizes  and  crushes  my  heart,  in  the 
light  of  a  long  evening  which  gilds  its  agony,  is  the 
Great  Trianon,  solitary  and  kingly. 

And  its  deserted  stone  stairway,  where  Autumn  so 
gently,  dreamily,  lets  fall  his  red  hair  upon  the 
divinely  sad  water  of  the  great  canal. 

IV 

Page  g6.  The  grove  of  Vertumnus  is  abandoned  by  the 
Graces.  This  shade  which  creeps  from  marble  to 
marble,  moaning,  and  steadies  itself  with  a  beautiful, 
feeble  arm,  is,  alas  !  the  mourning  Genius  of  old  races. 

O  Palace,  supreme  horizon  of  the  terraces !  Some- 
thing of  your  beauty  runs  in  our  blood;  and  it  is 
this  which  gives  you  an  indescribable  accent  when  a 
sublime  sunset  lights  up  your  windows. 

Glories  of  which  you  were  for  so  many  days  the 
scene,  souls  glittering  under  the  chandeliers.  Golden 
evenings.  Versailles  .  .  .  But  already  the  sombre 
night  is  closing  in. 

And  suddenly  my  heart  tightens ;  for  I  hear,  like  a 
sinister  battering  ram  striking  against  the  walls  of 
time,  always  the  great,  dull  sound  of  black  waters  in 
the  darkness. 


362  Six  French  Poets 

LANDSCAPES 
I 

Page  q6.  The  air  is  of  triple  lightness.  Under  a  sky  of  triple 
purity,  the  old  market  town,  crumbling  within  its 
black  walls,  smiles,  this  clear  winter  morning,  under 
its  pebbles,  at  its  familiar  mountains  which  dream  in 
the  blue  sky. 

A  flagstone  set  in  the  pavement  speaks,  after  two 
thousand  years,  in  obscure  Latin  of  ancient  funerals. 
Caesar  passed  this  way  to  gain  his  battles.  A  Spring 
bird  sings  upon  an  old  wall. 

Noisy,  in  the  lacy  shade  of  a  tree,  the  sculptured 
fountain  in  its  marble  basin  flings  up  four  silver 
threads  to  sparkle  in  the  sunshine. 

And  while,  through  a  crowd  of  urchins,  the  yellow 
diligence  turns  into  the  principal  street,  the  Signa- 
dor's  tower  tosses  out  the  hour,  dreaming. 


II 

Page  Qy.  Pale  and  adroit,  the  watchmaker  works  quietly ; 
lazily,  with  wide-open  doors,  the  shops  sleep ;  and  the 
frankness  of  good-mornings  is  exchanged  from  one 
sidewalk  to  the  other,  as  in  old  times. 

Notary's  sign  and  doctor's  plate  ...     A  boy  is 
watering  donkeys  at  a  well ;  and  conducted  by  a  nun. 


Appendix  A  363 

in  symmetric  lines,  the  small  children  are  going  to  say 
their  catechism. 


All  of  a  sudden,  a  ray  of  sunshine  flung  like  an  ar- 
row starts  a  fresh,  clear  voice  singing  in  a  lane  as  dark 
as  though  it  were  a  corridor. 

Little  brooks  stream  in  a  crowd  from  the  mountain, 
and  everywhere  there  is  a  noise  of  rushing  water 
which  flows  from  dawn  with  its  forehead  of  silver 
until  evening  with  its  eyes  of  gold. 

THE   KITCHEN 

Page  g8.  In  the  kitchen,  where  the  scent  of  thyme  floats, 
the  return  from  market  is  like  an  evening  after  a  day 
of  booty.  Pell-mell  with  the  heavy  meats,  are  heaped 
up  leeks,  radishes,  garlands  of  onions,  great  violet 
cabbages,  the  red  pumpkin,  the  glossy  tomato,  and 
the  pale  lemon.  Like  a  great  kite,  the  enormous 
and  flat  skate  lies,  dug  into  by  a  knife,  with  a  scarlet 
wound.  A  hare  with  red  fur,  and  with  eyes  like 
burst  grapes,  sprawls  on  the  pavement.  From  a  heap 
of  oysters  emptied  out  of  a  basket  covered  with  sea- 
weed, comes  the  smell  of  the  open  and  the  freshness 
of  waves.  Quails,  partridges  with  soft,  slate-coloured 
stomachs,  hang  their  broken  necks,  the  beaks  all  cov- 
ered with  blood.  It  is  a  butcher's  stall,  vibrating 
with  green  fruits,  vegetables,  mother-of-pearl,  clear 
silver,  scales  and  feathers.  A  chunk  of  salmon 
bleeds,  and,  still  alive,  a  great  bronze  lobster,  bought 


364  '5'ix  French  Poets 

at  the  port  and  flung  by  chance  with  the  provisions, 
moves  a  broken  feeler  as  he  dies. 


PROVINCIAL   NOCTURNE 

Page  gg.        The  Uttle,  noiseless  town  sleeps  soundly   in  the 
night. 

In  the  old  branching  street  lamps,  the  feeble  gas  is 
dying ;  but  suddenly  the  moon  comes  out,  and  along 
the  whole  line  of  white  houses  the  windows  shine  with 
silver. 

The  warm  night  fans  itself  all  along  the  chestnut 
trees  ...  the  unhastening  night,  in  which  light  is 
still  floating.  In  the  old  parts  of  the  town  all  is  black 
and  deserted.  Lean  on  the  old  stone  bridge,  my 
soul,  and  breathe  the  good  smell  of  the  river. 

The  silence  is  so  great  that  my  heart  shivers.  Only 
the  noise  of  my  feet  resounds  on  the  pavement.  The 
silence  makes  my  heart  tremble,  and  midnight  strikes. 

Along  the  great  walls  of  a  convent,  leaves  rustle  in 
the  wind.  Schoolgirls  .  .  .  Orphans  .  .  .  Blue  rib- 
bons on  tippets  ...  It  is  the  garden  of  the 
Ursulines. 

Through  the  barred  gate  a  breeze  passes  as  gently 
as  a  sigh.  And  that  star  of  quiet  flames,  over  there, 
beyond  the  hornbeam  hedges,  seems  a  night-light  of 
sapphire. 


Appendix  A  365 

Oh !  under  the  slate  roofs,  whitened  by  the  moon, 
virgins,  and  their  pure  sleep  in  clear  rooms,  and  their 
little  round  necks  knotted  with  scapulars,  and  their 
sinless  bodies  in  the  whiteness  of  the  beds ! 

Here  one  monotonous  hour  is  followed  by  another 
monotonous  hour,  and  peaceful  innocence  sleeps  at 
the  edge  of  life  ,  .  . 

Infinitely  sad  and  deserted  under  the  electric  moon- 
light, the  historic  square  solemnly  lines  up  its  old 
houses  of  ParUament. 

At  the  corner,  a  window  is  still  lit  up.  A  lamp 
is  above,  watching  while  everything  sleeps.  Every 
now  and  then,  behind  the  thin  stuff  which  dims  the 
light,  the  shadow  of  a  woman  glides  furtively. 

The  window  opens  a  little ;  and  the  woman,  poign- 
ant admission,  wrings  her  beautiful,  naked  arms  in 
the  blue  air  .  .  . 

0  secret  ardours  of  provincial  nights !  Hearts 
which  bum  !  Disordered  hair  spread  out !  Beauti- 
ful breasts  heavy  with  desire,  kneaded  by  pale  hands. 
Great  beseeching  appeals,  and  never  heard  ! 

1  evoke  you,  O  you,  unknown  mistresses,  whose 
flesh  is  consumed  like  a  wasted  torch,  who  weep  hope- 
lessly over  your  beautiful  bodies,  and  made  for  love 


366  Six  French  Poets 

and  by  love  devoured,  you  will  be  laid  some  evening 
as  virgins  in  the  grave ! 

And  my  pensive  soul,  at  the  comer  of  the  square, 
stares  always  over  at  the  window  where  the  shadow 
passes. 

The  frail  curtain  shakes  in  the  wind  .  .  .  The 
lamp  goes  out  .  .  .  One  o'clock  strikes.  No  one, 
no  one,  no  one. 


FIRST   ELEGY 

To  Albert  Samain 

Page  102.  My  dear  Samain,  it  is  to  you  that  I  write  still. 
This  is  the  first  time  I  send  to  death  these  lines  which, 
to-morrow,  in  Heaven,  some  old  servitor  of  an  eternal 
hamlet  will  bring  to  you.  Smile  at  me  so  that  I 
shall  not  weep.  Say  to  me :  "I  am  not  as  ill  as  you 
think."  Open  my  door  again,  dear  friend.  Cross 
my  threshold,  and  say  to  me  as  you  enter:  "Why 
are  you  in  mourning?"  Come  in  further.  You  are 
in  Orthez.  There  is  Bonheur.  Put  your  hat  on 
that  chair.  You  are  thirsty?  Here  is  blue  water 
from  the  well,  and  wine.  My  mother  will  come  down 
and  say  to  you:  "Samain  ..."  And  my  dog  will 
lean  his  muzzle  on  your  hand. 

I  talk.     You  smile  with  a  serious  smile.     Time  does 
not  exist.     And  you  let  me  go  on  talking.    Evening 


Appendix  A  367 

comes.  We  walk  in  the  yellow  light  which  makes 
the  end  of  the  day  like  Autumn.  We  walk  along  the 
mountain  stream.  A  hoarse  pigeon  complains  softly 
in  a  blue-green  poplar.  I  chatter.  You  still  smile. 
Bonheur  is  silent.  See  the  road,  dark  at  Summer's  end, 
see  the  shadow  kneeling  near  the  four  o 'clocks  which 
deck  the  black  thresholds  where  the  blue  smoke  comes. 

Your  death  changes  nothing.  The  shade  which 
you  loved,  in  which  you  lived,  in  which  you  suffered, 
in  which  you  sang,  it  is  we  who  leave  it,  and  you  who 
keep  it.  Your  light  was  bom  of  this  darkness  which 
brings  us  to  our  knees  on  beautiful  Summer  even- 
ings, when,  under  the  black  creepers,  scenting  God 
who  passes  and  gives  Ufe  to  the  grain,  watch-dogs 
bark. 

I  do  not  regret  your  death.  Others  will  put  the 
laurel  which  is  your  right  over  the  wrinkles  of  your 
forehead.  For  I,  knowing  you,  I  should  fear  to 
wound  you.  The  glory  of  those  who  die  uncrowned 
should  not  be  hid  from  the  sixteen-year-old  children 
who  will  follow  your  bier,  weeping  over  your  lyre. 

I  do  not  regret  your  death.  Your  life  is  there.  As 
the  voice  of  the  wind  which  rocks  the  lilacs  does  not 
die,  but  returns  after  many  years  to  those  same  Ulacs 
which  we  had  thought  faded,  so  your  songs,  my  dear 
Samain,  will  come  again  to  soothe  those  children  with 
whom  our  thoughts  are  already  teeming. 


368  Six  French  Poets 

Like  some  antique  shepherd  whose  flock  weeps  upon 
the  bare  hill,  I  should  seek  in  vain  upon  your  grave  for 
something  which  I  can  take  away.  The  salt  would 
be  eaten  by  the  mountain  sheep,  and  the  wine  would 
be  drunk  by  those  who  have  plundered  you. 

I  dream  of  you.  The  day  fades  like  that  day  when 
I  saw  you  in  my  old  country  parlour.  I  dream  of 
you.  I  dream  of  my  native  mountains.  I  dream  of 
this  Versailles  where  you  took  me,  where  we  recited 
poems,  sadly,  and  step  by  step.  I  dream  of  your 
friend,  and  I  dream  of  your  mother.  I  dream  of  those 
sheep  who,  waiting  for  death  on  the  shores  of  the  blue 
lake,  bleat  over  their  little  bells. 

I  dream  of  you.  I  dream  of  the  pure  emptiness 
of  the  heavens.  I  dream  of  the  endless  water,  of  the 
brightness  of  fires.  I  dream  of  the  dew  which  sparkles 
on  the  vines.  I  dream  of  you.  I  dream  of  myself.  I 
dream  of  God. 

REMY  DE  GOURMONT 

Page  112.  I  have  seen  the  portrait.  The  moon,  pale  and 
green,  swam  through  the  room;  I  had  just  waked 
up,  and  indistinct  and  ophidian  visions  still  haunted 
me.  Suspiciously,  with  feverish  eyes,  I  looked 
about  me.  Was  I  in  my  room  and  in  my  bed  ?  Per- 
haps. There,  over  the  chimney,  the  mirror  slowly 
changed  its  tint ;   its  moon-green,  its  green  of  trans- 


Appendix  A  359 

parent  water  under  willow  trees,  suddenly  brightened 
and  became  more  golden.  One  would  have  said  that 
in  the  centre  of  the  light,  as  it  is  also  on  the  face  of  the 
moon,  shadows  were  thrown  which  had  the  appear- 
ance of  human  features,  while  about  the  vague  face 
a  luminous  undulation  wound,  like  blond  hair  undone 
and  floating. 


Page  112.  A  church  with  flying  buttresses,  short  and  heavy, 
first  attracted  the  inexperienced  attention,  and  fixed 
it  by  the  splendour  of  its  beribboned  Madonna. 
When  the  setting  sun,  shining  into  the  oval  niche, 
bathed  it  in  light,  the  rubies  and  peridots  of  her 
tiara,  the  lepidolites  and  the  topazes,  starry  aureole, 
shimmered  with  the  brilliance  of  so  many  stars,  and 
the  face  with  the  diamond  eyes  shone  with  ecstasy. 

DREAM  FIGURE 
Sequence 
Page  123.      The  dearly  beloved  with  the  clear  eyes  appeared 
under  the  moon,  under  the  ephemeral  moon,  mother 
of  beautiful  dreams.     The  misty  blue  light  powdered 
her  star-blossomed  forehead  with  an  ethereal  dust, 
and  her  light  hair  floated  in  the  air  behind  her  spring- 
ing steps:    the  chimera  slept  in  the  depths  of  her 
eyes.     On  the  bare,  delicate  skin  of  her  neck,  the 
starry  smiles  of  a  rosary  of  pearls  arranged  in  rows 
the  reflections  of  their  pale  lightnings.    About  her 
wrists  were  identical  bracelets,  and  her  head  bore  the 

2B 


370  Six  French  Poets 

crown,  incrusted  with  the  seven  mystical  stones, 
whose  flames  pierce  the  heart  Hke  knives,  under  the 
ephemeral  moon,  mother  of  beautiful  dreams. 

Page  126.  Hypocritical  flower, 

Flower  of  silence. 

Page  126.  Rose  with  the  black  eyes,  mirror  of  your  nothing- 
ness, rose  with  the  black  eyes,  cause  us  to  believe  in 
mystery,  hypocritical  flower,  flower  of  silence  .  .  . 

Rose,  colour  of  silver,  censor  of  our  dreams,  rose, 
colour  of  silver,  take  om*  hearts  and  make  smoke  of 
them,  hypocritical  flower,  flower  of  silence  .  .  . 

Wine-coloured  rose,  flower  of  arbours  and  cellars, 
wine-coloured  rose,  mad  alcohols  gambol  in  your 
breath  ;  whisper  to  us  the  horror  of  love,  hypocritical 
flower,  flower  of  silence. 

Page  127.  Rose  of  silk  paper.  Rose  the  colour  of  dawn,  the 
colour  of  time,  the  colour  of  nothing.  Flesh-coloured 
rose.  Rose  of  the  virginal  heart.  Rose,  the  colour 
of  evening.  Blue  rose,  iris-coloured  rose.  Carbuncle 
rose,  rose  blossomed  on  the  black  forehead  of  the 
dragon. 

Page  127.  Transparent  rose,  colour  of  clear  springs  spouting 
up  among  grasses,  transparent  rose,  Hylas  is  dead 
of  having  loved  your  eyes,  hypocritical  flower,  flower 
of  silence. 


Appendix  A  371 

Papal  rose,  rose  watered  by  the  hands  which  bless 
the  world,  papal  rose,  your  golden  heart  is  of  copper, 
and  the  tears  which  fall  in  pearls  upon  your  worthless 
petals  are  the  tears  of  Christ,  hypocritical  flower, 
flower  of  silence. 

Hypocritical  flower, 

Flower  of  silence. 

Page  128.  I  prefer  you  to  the  most  gallant  hearts,  dead  hearts, 
hearts  of  other  days  .  ,  . 

Jonquils,  of  which  the  pure  eyelashes  of  so  many 
blond  girls  are  made  .  .  . 

Aconite,  flower  helmeted  with  poison,  warrior  of 
the  raven's  wing  .  .  . 

Campanulas,  little  enamoured  bells  that  the  Spring 
tinkles  .  .  . 

Four-o'clock  who  knocked  at  my  door,  it  was  mid- 
night, I  opened  my  door  to  the  Four-o'clock,  and  her 
eyes  bloomed  in  the  darkness  . 

Lavender,  little  serious  one,  perfume  of  virtue  . 
shirts  by  the  dozen  in  oaken  wardrobes,  lavender  not 
too  mischievous  and  so  tender  . 

Alyssum,  whose  beautiful  soul  entirely  evaporates 
in  song  .  .  . 

Page  128.       Birch,  shiver  of  the  bather  in  the  ocean  of  wild 
grasses,  while  the  wind  plays  with  your  pale  hair  . 

Mountain-ash,  fringed  parasol,  coral  seeds  upon 
the  golden  necks  of  gypsies  .  .  . 


372  Six  French  Poets 

Larch,  lady  of  sad  thoughts,  parable  leaning  upon 
the  ruin  of  a  wall,  the  silver  spiders  have  spun  their 
webs  in  your  ears  .  .  . 

Horse-chestnut,  court  lady  in  crinoline,  lady  in  a 
dress  embroidered  with  trefoils  and  feathers,  lady, 
useless  and  beautiful. 

ASCENSION 

Page  ijo.  An  evening  in  the  deserted  heather  with  my 
Beloved  smiling  and  weary  ...  O  Sun,  like  a 
picked  flower  your  heavy  head  dies  and  falls,  pale, 
to  the  horizon.  Ah,  if  I  were  with  my  weary  Beloved, 
one  evening  in  the  deserted  heather  1 

Among  meadow-sweet  and  reeds,  the  tree-frogs 
cried  their  love  songs.  Beetles  climbed  up  the  horse- 
tails. Blue  jays  made  the  frail  branches  bend.  One 
heard  the  love  cries  of  the  tree-frogs  among  the 
meadow-sweet. 

Up  above,  at  the  threshold  of  a  half-open  door,  a 
dog  wails  to  the  new-risen  and  green  moon  which  gives 
a  little  joy  to  the  blind  sky  ;  a  cow  about  to  be  milked 
moves  and  lows,  a  dog  wails  to  the  new-risen  and  green 
moon,  up  above,  at  the  threshold  of  a  half-open  door. 

While  we  climb  to  the  curve  of  the  summit  with 
restless  and  smiling  souls,  Vision,  remaining  halfway 
up,  sits  thoughtfully,  her  head  in  her  hands ;  and  we 
mount  to  the  summit,  we  climb  smiling,  with  restless 
souls. 


Appendix  A  373 


Page  131.  Somewhere  in  the  mists  there  is  an  island,  and  on 
the  island  a  castle,  and  in  the  castle  a  great  hall  lit 
by  a  small  lamp,  and  in  the  great  hall  are  people  who 
wait.  For  what  do  they  wait  ?  They  do  not  know. 
They  wait  for  some  one  to  knock  at  the  door,  they 
wait  for  the  lamp  to  go  out,  they  await  Fear,  they 
await  Death.  They  speak;  yes,  they  say  words 
which  trouble  the  silence  for  a  moment,  then  they 
listen  again,  leaving  their  sentences  unfinished,  their 
gestures  interrupted.  They  listen,  they  wait.  It 
will  not  come  perhaps  ?  Oh,  it  will  come !  It  always 
comes.  It  is  late,  perhaps  it  will  not  come  until 
to-morrow.  And  the  people  assembled  in  the  great 
hall,  under  the  little  lamp,  smile  and  hope.  Some  one 
knocks.  And  that  is  all ;  the  whole  of  a  life,  the  whole 
of  life. 

DEDICATION 

Page  132.  O  travellers,  who  journey  dreaming,  dreaming 
perhaps  of  rose-coloured  distances,  while  the  dust 
and  sunlight  of  arid  spaces  have  burnt  your  bare 
arms  and  your  wavering  souls,  0  travellers,  who 
journey  dreaming,  dreaming  perhaps  of  rose-coloured 
distances ! 

Here  is  the  road  which  leads  to  the  mountain, 
here  is  the  clear  spring  where  balsams  grow,  here  is 
the  wood  full  of  shadow  and  anemones,  here  are 
pines,  here  is  peace,  here  are  the  lofty  summits,  here 
is  the  road  which  leads  to  the  mountain,  here  is  the 
clear  spring  where  balsams  grow ! 


374  •^'^^  French  Poets 

0  travellers,  who  journey  dreaming,  follow  the 
voice  which  calls  you  to  the  heavens :  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  is  sweet  as  honey,  and  women  with  pure 
hearts  become  more  beautiful  there.  0  travellers, 
who  journey  dreaming,  follow  the  voice  which  calls 
you  to  the  heavens. 

AGATHA 

Page  133.  Jewel  found  among  Sicilian  stones,  Agatha,  virgin 
sold  to  the  love-dealers,  Agatha,  victorious  over  neck- 
laces and  rings,  of  the  seven  magic  rubies  and  the 
three  moonstones,  Agatha,  rejoiced  by  the  fire  of 
red  irons  as  an  almond-tree  by  the  gentle  rains  of 
Autumn,  Agatha,  embalmed  by  a  young  angel  with 
purple  vestments,  Agatha,  stone  and  iron,  Agatha, 
gold  and  silver,  Agatha  of  the  order  of  Malta,  Saint 
Agatha,  put  fire  into  our  blood. 

COLETTE 

Page  I J  4.  Grievous  beauty  hidden  in  prayer,  Colette,  severe 
to  your  heart  and  more  severe  to  your  flesh,  Colette, 
prisoner  in  bitter  cloisters  where  the  necklaces  of 
love  are  chains  of  iron,  Colette  who  lay  down  upon 
the  ground  to  die,  Colette  who  after  her  death  re- 
mained fresh  as  a  stone,  Saint  Colette,  cause  our 
hearts  to  become  as  austere  as  stones. 

JEANNE 

Page  134.  Shepherdess  born  in  Lorraine,  Jeanne  who  tended 
sheep  in  a  coarse  cotton  dress,  and  who  wept  at  the 


Appendix  A  2)75 

miseries  of  the  people  of  France,  and  who  conducted 
the  King  to  Rheims  amid  lances,  Jeanne  who  was  a 
bow,  a  cross,  a  sword,  a  heart,  and  a  lance,  Jeanne 
whom  the  people  loved  as  they  do  father  and  mother, 
Jeanne,  wounded  and  taken,  and  thrown  into  a 
dungeon  by  the  English,  Jeanne,  burnt  at  Rouen 
by  the  English,  Jeanne,  like  to  an  angel  in  anger, 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  put  much  anger  into  our  hearts. 

URSULA 

Page  135.  Griffin  of  the  North,  sacred  beast  come  in  the  blue 
light  of  a  boreal  dream,  Ursula,  snow-flake  drunk  by 
the  lips  of  Jesus,  Ursula,  red  star  to  the  purple  tulip, 
Ursula,  sister  of  so  many  innocent  hearts,  whose 
bloody  head  smoulders  like  a  carbuncle  in  the  circle 
of  the  arch,  Ursula,  ship,  sail,  oar  and  tempest, 
Ursula,  flown  away  upon  the  back  of  a  white  bird. 
Saint  Ursula,  bear  our  hearts  away  to  the  snows. 

HER   HAIR 

Page  136.  Simone,  there  is  a  great  mystery  in  the  forest  of 
your  hair. 

You  savour  of  hay,  you  savour  of  stones  against 
which  animals  have  leaned ;  you  savour  of  leather, 
you  savour  of  grain  when  it  has  just  been  winnowed ; 
you  savour  of  wood,  you  savour  of  bread  which  is 
brought  in  the  morning ;  you  savour  of  flowers  which 
have  sprung  up  along  an  abandoned  wall ;  you  savour 
of  brambles,  you  savour  of  i\^  washed  by  the  rain ; 
you  savour  of  rushes  and  bracken  which  is  mown 


376  Six  French  Poets 

at  the  fall  of  night ;  you  savour  of  holly,  you  savour 
of  moss,  you  savour  of  red  and  dying  grass  which 
seeds  itself  in  the  shade  of  hedges;  you  savour  of 
nettles  and  broom,  you  savour  of  clover,  you  sa- 
vour of  milk ;  you  savour  of  fennel  and  anise ;  you 
savour  of  nuts ;  you  savour  of  fruits  which  are  very 
ripe  and  being  picked ;  you  savour  of  the  willow 
and  the  linden  when  their  leaves  are  full  of  flowers ; 
you  savour  of  honey,  you  savour  of  life  which  walks 
the  fields ;  you  savour  of  the  ground  and  the  river ; 
you  savour  of  love,  you  savour  of  fire, 

Simone,  there  is  a  great  mystery  in  the  forest  of  your 
hair. 

THE  HOLLY 

Page  137.      Simone,  the  sunshine  laughs  upon  the  holly  leaves : 
April  has  come  back  to  play  with  us. 

Upon  his  shoulders  he  carries  baskets  of  flowers 
which  he  gives  to  the  hawthorns,  to  the  chestnuts, 
and  to  the  willows ; 

He  sows  them  one  by  one  in  the  grass  of  the  fields, 
upon  the  banks  of  brooks,  ponds,  and  ditches ; 

He  keeps  the  jonquils  for  the  water,  the  periwinkles 
for  the  woods,  in  those  places  which  are  overhung 
by  branches ; 


Appendix  A  2)77 


He  throws  violets  into  the  shade  under  briars, 
where  his  naked  foot  fearlessly  hides  them  and 
thrusts  them  in. 

To  all  the  fields  he  gives  Easter  daisies,  and  prim- 
roses which  have  necklaces  of  Uttle  bells. 

In  the  forests,  all  along  the  cool  paths,  he  lets  fall 
lilies-of-the-valley  with  anemones. 

He  plants  irises  upon  the  roofs  of  houses,  and  in 
our  garden,  Simone,  where  it  is  so  pleasant. 

He  will  scatter  columbines  and  pansies,  hyacinths, 
and  the  good  smell  of  wallflowers. 

THE  FOG 

Page  138.      Simone,  put  on  your  cloak  and  your  great,  black 
sabots,  we  will  go  as  in  a  boat  through  the  fog. 

We  will  go  to  islands  of  beauty  where  the  women 
are  beautiful  like  trees  and  naked  like  souls ;  we  will 
go  to  islands  where  men  are  gentle  Uke  lions,  with 
long,  red  hair.  Come,  the  uncreated  world  awaits 
otir  dream  for  its  laws,  its  joys,  for  its  gods  who  make 
the  seed  blossom,  and  the  wind  which  makes  the  leaves 
shine  and  rustle.  Come,  the  innocent  world  will 
soon  rise  from  a  grave. 


378  Six  French  Poets 

Simone,  put  on  your  cloak  and  your  great,  black 
sabots,  we  will  go  as  in  a  boat  through  the  fog. 

We  will  go  to  islands  where  there  are  mountains 
from  which  can  be  seen  peaceful  stretches  of  country, 
v/ith  happy  animals  cropping  the  grass,  shepherds 
who  look  like  willow -trees,  and  sheaves  being  lifted 
into  carts  with  forks.  It  is  still  sunlight,  and  the 
sheep  stop  near  the  stable,  before  the  gate  of  the 
garden  which  smells  of  bumet,  tarragon,  and  thyme. 

Simone,  put  on  your  cloak  and  your  great,  black 
sabots,  and  we  will  go  as  in  a  boat  through  the  fog. 

THE   DEAD   LEAVES 

Page  140.  Simone,  let  us  go  to  the  wood ;  the  leaves  have 
fallen;  they  cover  the  moss,  the  stones,  and  the 
paths. 

Simone,  do  you  like  the  sound  of  steps  upon  dead 
leaves  ? 

They  have  such  soft  colours,  such  grave  tints,  they 
are  such  frail  waifs  upon  the  earth. 

Simone,  do  you  like  the  sound  of  steps  upon  dead 
leaves  ? 

They  have  such  a  mournful  look  at  twilight,  they 
cry  so  tenderly  when  the  wind  tumbles  them  about. 


Appendix  A  379 


Simone,  do  you  like  the  sound  of  steps  upon  dead 
leaves  ? 

When  they  are  crushed  under  foot,  they  lament 
like  souls,  they  make  a  noise  of  wings  or  of  women's 
dresses. 

Simone,  do  you  like  the  sound  of  steps  upon  dead 
leaves  ? 

Come :  some  day  we  shall  be  poor  dead  leaves. 
Come :    the  night  is  already  falling  and  the  wind 
bears  us  away. 

Simone,  do  you  like  the  sound  of  steps  upon  dead 
leaves  ? 

THE  RIVER 

Page  141.  Simone,  the  river  sings  an  ingenuous  tune,  come, 
we  wiU  go  among  the  rushes  and  the  water-hemlocks ; 
it  is  noon  :  the  men  have  quitted  their  carts,  and  I  — 
I  shall  see  your  naked  foot  in  the  clear  water. 

The  river  is  the  mother  of  fishes  and  flowers,  of 
trees,  of  birds,  of  scents,  of  colours ; 

She  gives  drink  to  the  birds  who  have  eaten  their 
grain  and  who  are  about  to  fly  to  a  distant  country ; 

She  gives  drink  to  the  blue  flies  with  green  stomachs, 
and  the  water-spiders  who  row  like  galley-slaves ; 


38o  Six  French  Poets 

The  river  is  the  mother  of  the  fish  :  she  gives  them 
worms,  grass,  air,  and  ozone ; 

She  gives  them  love;  she  gives  them  wings  to 
follow  the  shadows  of  their  females  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth. 

The  river  is  the  mother  of  flowers,  of  rainbows,  of 
everything  which  is  made  of  water  and  a  little  sun- 
shine. 

She  nourishes  the  French  grass  and  the  hay,  and 
the  meadow-sweet  which  has  the  perfume  of  honey, 
and  the  mullens 

Which  have  leaves  as  soft  as  the  down  of  birds; 
she  nourishes  the  corn,  the  clover,  and  the  reeds ; 

She  nourishes  the  hemp,  she  nourishes  the  flax, 
she  nourishes  the  oats,  the  barley,  and  the  buck- 
wheat ; 

She  nourishes  the  rye,  the  osiers  and  the  apple- 
trees  ;  she  nourishes  the  willows  and  the  great  pop- 
lars. 

The  river  is  the  mother  of  forests :  from  her  bed 
the  beautiful  oaks  have  drawn  the  pure  water  of 
their  veins. 


Appendix  A  381 

The  river  fertilizes  the  sky:  when  the  rain  falls 
it  is  the  river  drawn  up  into  the  sky  and  falling  back ; 

The  river  is  a  very  powerful  and  very  pure  mother, 
the  river  is  the  mother  of  all  nature. 

Simone,  the  river  sings  an  ingenuous  tune,  come, 
we  will  go  among  the  rushes  and  the  water -hemlocks, 
it  is  noon :  the  men  have  quitted  their  carts,  and  I  — 
I  shall  see  your  naked  foot  in  the  clear  water. 

THE   ORCHARD 

Page  143.  Simone,  let  us  go  to  the  orchard,  with  a  wicker 
basket.  As  we  go  into  the  orchard  we  will  say  to 
our  apple-trees :  This  is  the  season  of  apples.  Let 
us  go  to  the  orchard,  Simone,  let  us  go  to  the  orchard. 

The  apple-trees  are  full  of  wasps,  for  the  apples 
are  very  ripe :  there  is  a  great  murmuring  about  the 
old  doux-aux-vepes.  The  apple-trees  are  full  of 
apples,  let  us  go  to  the  orchard,  Simone,  let  us  go  to 
the  orchard. 

We  will  pick  the  calville,  the  pigeonnet,  and  the 
pippin,  and  also  cider-apples  which  are  a  little  taste- 
less. This  is  the  season  of  apples,  let  us  go  to  the 
orchard,  Simone,  let  us  go  to  the  orchard. 

You  will  have  the  smell  of  apples  on  your  dress 
and  on  your  hands,  and  your  hair  will  be  full  of  the 


382  Six  French  Poets 

sweet  perfume  of  Autumn.  The  apple-trees  are  full 
of  apples,  let  us  go  to  the  orchard,  Simone,  let  us  go 
to  the  orchard. 

Simone,  you  will  be  my  orchard  and  my  apple- 
tree  of  the  doux-aux-vepes ;  Simone,  drive  the  wasps 
away  from  your  heart  and  my  orchard.  This  is 
the  season  of  apples,  let  us  go  to  the  orchard,  Simone, 
let  us  go  to  the  orchard. 

AUTUMN   SONG 

Page  144.  Come,  my  Dear,  come,  it  is  Autumn,  damp  and 
monotonous  Autumn,  but  the  leaves  of  the  cherry- 
trees  and  the  ripe  fruit  of  the  sweet-briars  are  red 
like  kisses.     Come,  my  Dear,  come,  it  is  Autumn. 

Come,  my  Dear,  come,  the  rude  Autumn  draws 
his  mantle  closer  about  him  and  shivers,  but  the 
sunshine  is  pleasant;  in  the  air  which  is  as  soft  as 
your  heart,  the  mist  cradles  its  languor.  Come,  my 
Dear,  come,  it  is  Autumn. 

Come,  my  Dear,  the  Autumn  wind  sobs  like  a 
person.  And  in  the  gaping  thickets  the  brambles 
writhe  their  perverse  arms,  but  the  oaks  are  always 
green.     Come,  my  Dear,  come,  it  is  Autumn. 

Come,  my  Dear,  the  Autumn  wind  scolds  harshly 
and  lectures  us,  words  whistle  down  the  paths,  but 


Appendix  A  3^3 

the  gentle  sound  of  wood-pigeons'  wings  can  be 
heard  in  the  brush.  Come,  my  Dear,  come,  it  is 
Autumn. 

Come,  my  Dear,  the  melancholy  Autumn  abandons 
itself  to  the  arms  of  Winter,  but  the  grass  of  Summer 
still  grows,  and  the  last  heather  is  sweet,  and  one 
thinks  one  sees  the  blossoming  of  the  moss.  Come, 
my  Dear,  come,  it  is  Auturmi. 

Come,  my  Dear,  come,  it  is  Autumn,  the  poplars 
shiver,  all  bare,  but  their  foliage  is  not  dead ;  puffing 
out  its  gold-coloured  dress,  it  dances,  it  dances,  it 
still  dances.     Come,  my  Dear,  come,  it  is  Autumn. 

HENRI  DE  REGNIER 

Page  158.  I  dreamt  that  these  verses  should  be  like  those 
flowers  which  the  hands  of  master  carvers  twine 
about  golden  vases  of  cunning  dimensions. 

Page  164.  The  water  of  the  springs  where,  in  the  evening, 
falls  the  universal  death  of  roses,  was  happy  at  the 
sight  of  us  combing  our  tawny  hair. 

A  little  of  this  water  —  our  mirrors ! 

The  fountains  were  loud  in  the  woods  of  Moon- 
light and  Night;  crystal  in  which  is  reflected  and 
isolated  some  star  fled  from  the  sky  .  .  . 


384  Six  French  Poets 

The  water  in  our  amphorae  is  dried  up. 

The  stairways  curve  their  balustrades  .  .  . 
Oh,  cold  feet  upon  pavements  ! 
The  doors  and  the  high  chambers  for  the  naked 
sleep  of  Psyches  .  .  , 

The  oil  is  coagulated  at  the  bottom  of  the  lamps ! 

MAD  AUTUMN 

Page  165.  Mad  Autumn  exhausts  its  roses  in  garlands,  pale 
like  lips  and  smiles  ;  and  the  misery  is  to  have  lived 
among  roses,  masks,  vanities,  and  deliriums ! 

From  new  leather  bottles,  laughing  ^gypans  drank 
old  wine  in  which  the  fire  of  Summer  still  lives ;  vines 
puffed  out  the  clear  amber  of  their  maturity,  their 
bunches  fell  into  the  water,  grape  by  grape. 

Roses  decorated  cups,  ivy-twined  staffs,  and  the 
skirts  of  youthful  dresses;  in  the  shade,  the  souls 
of  fountains  wept ;  the  vine-branches  about  the 
staffs  seemed  the  blood  of  flaming  torches. 

Mad  Autumn  exhausts  itself  in  supreme  garlands, 
red-haired  satyrs  prowl  through  the  woods,  empty 
masks  are  hung  in  garlands,  and  the  wind  laughs 
through  the  holes  of  their  voiceless  mouths. 


Appendix  A  38c 

THE  RIM   OF  THE  MEDAL 

Page  166.  One  evening,  at  the  meeting  of  the  roads  in  the 
forest  —  one  evening,  in  the  wind,  with  my  shadow  — 
one  evening,  weary  of  the  cinders  of  altars  and  years, 
uncertain  of  the  predestined  hours,  I  sat  down. 

The  roads  led  toward  days,  and  I  could  still  go 
with  them,  and  always  toward  places,  waters,  and 
dreams,  always,  until  the  day  when  Death,  with 
magical  and  patient  hands,  should  have  closed  my 
eyes  with  the  seal  of  her  peaceful  and  golden  flower. 

Roads  of  tall  oaks  and  solitude,  your  rough  stone 
is  difficult  to  weariness,  your  pebbles  hard  for  tired 
feet,  and  at  each  step  I  should  see  the  wounds  of  my 
past  still  bleeding;  and  your  haughty  oaks  mutter 
in  the  harsh  wind,  and  I  am  tired. 

Road  of  clear  birches  which  shed  their  leaves  and 
tremble,  pale  like  the  shame  of  your  pale  travellers 
who  lose  their  way  in  your  sticky  mud-holes,  and  go 
together  and  turn  away  so  as  not  to  see  one  another 
face  to  face ;  road  of  mud  and  oozing  water,  the  wind 
whispers  its  lamentations  to  your  leaves,  the  great 
silver  marshes  of  moons  and  hoar-frost  stagnate  in 
the  twilight  at  the  ends  of  your  tracks,  and  Dulness 
takes  those  by  the  hand  who  would  follow  you. 

Road  of  smooth  ash  trees  and  of  thin  sands,  where 
the  wind  effaces  the  footsteps  and  desires  one  to 


2C 


386  Six  French  Poets 

forget  and  one  goes  as  it  goes,  from  tree  to  tree, 
your  honey  flowers  have  the  colour  of  the  gold  of  the 
sands,  your  curve  is  such  that  one  can  hardly  see 
where  one  turns ;  the  town  to  which  you  lead  is  kind 
to  strangers  and  my  steps  upon  the  thresholds  of 
its  doors  would  be  pleasant,  had  they  not  remained 
along  another  life  where  my  weeping  Hopes  watch 
dead  Shadows. 

I  will  not  go  toward  your  oaks,  nor  beside  your 
birches  and  ash  trees,  nor  toward  your  sunshine, 
your  towns,  and  your  waters,  O  roads!  I  hear  the 
steps  of  my  bleeding  past  coming,  the  steps  that  I 
believed  dead,  alas !  but  which  come  again,  and  seem 
to  precede  me  in  your  echoes,  O  roads;  you,  the 
easy  —  you,  the  shameful  —  you,  the  disdainful  — 
and  I  listen  to  the  wind,  companion  of  my  vain 
wanderings,  who  walks  and  weeps  under  the  oaks. 

O  my  soul,  evening  hangs  sadly  over  yesterday, 
O  my  soul,  evening  hangs  gloomily  over  to-morrow, 
O  my  soul,  evening  hangs  solemnly  over  you  ! 


SOME  ONE   DREAMS  OF   DAWN   AND   SHADOW 

Page  i6g.  "I  thought  I  saw  my  Sorrow  standing  under  the 
willows.  I  thought  I  saw  her  —  said  she  softly  — 
standing  near  the  gentle  brook  of  my  thoughts, 
the  same  which,  one  whole  evening,  flowed  past  with 
the  current,  roses  floating  upon  them,  waifs  from  the 
bouquet  of  wounded  hours.     Time  passes  with  passed 


Appendix  A  387 

waters ;   she  thought  with  my  thoughts  so  long  that 
the  bluish  woods  were  mauve,  then  darker,  and  black." 

I  thought  I  saw  my  Sorrow  —  said  he  —  and  I 
did  see  her  —  said  he  softly  —  she  was  naked,  sitting 
in  the  most  silent  grotto  of  my  inmost  thoughts; 
she  was  there,  the  gloomy  dream  of  frozen  waters, 
the  anxiety  of  anxious  stalactites,  the  weight  of  rocks 
as  heavy  as  time,  the  pain  of  porphyries  red  like 
blood ;  she  was  there,  sUent,  sitting  in  the  depth 
of  my  silence.  And  naked  as  a  person  is  who  thinks 
to  himself. 

Page  170.  Ripe  with  shadows  and  dreams,  in  their  skins  from 
which  the  golden  juice  is  oozing,  the  fruits  of  the  past 
hang  and  fall,  one  by  one,  and  one  again,  in  the  orchard 
of  dream  and  shadow. 

The  soft  twilight  fades,  and  revives  from  time  to 
time  on  a  pale  ray  of  sunshine  through  the  trees,  and 
the  moment  comes  when,  one  by  one,  tree  by  tree, 
the  wind  touches  the  beautiful  fruits  which  swing 
and  knock  their  warm,  pale  golds,  and  still  tremble 
when  the  wind  has  passed  and  the  darkness  is  quiet, 
and  fall,  one  by  one,  and  one  again. 

Sorrow  has  ripened  her  fruits  of  shadow  in  the 
quiet  orchards  of  our  dreams,  where  the  past  sleeps, 
starts,  and  sleeps  again,  to  the  sound  of  ripe  fruits 
falling  through  the  forgetfulness  of  death,  one  by  one, 
and  one  again. 


388  Six  French  Poets 

THE  FAUN  WITH  THE  MIRROR 

Page  172.       Sorrow,  I  have  built  your  house,  and  the  trees 
mingle   their   chequering   with   the   stains   of   your 
marbles.     Sorrow,  I  have  built  your  green  and  black 
palace,  where  the  yew  of  mourning  mingles  with  the 
myrtles  of  hope ;    in  the  crystal  panes  of  your  win- 
dows are  reflected  the  gardens,  with  balustrades  and 
waters  whose  exactness  frames  the  sky;    the  dismal 
echo  converses  with  solitude  who  seeks  herself  among 
the  cypresses ;  farther  off  is  silence  and  all  the  forest, 
the  rude  life,  and  the  prowUng  wind,  the  lush  grass 
on  which  is  printed,  according  to  what  thing  passes, 
an  animal  shoe  in  place  of  a  divine  foot ;   farther  off 
is  the  Satyr ;  and  still  farther,  the  God  of  the  Woods 
and  the  Nymph,  who,  naked,  inhabits  the  solitary 
fountains   where,   near   the   Thessalian   waters,   the 
Centaur  nicks  the  pebbles  in  kicking ;  and  then,  grey 
sands  after  red  sands,  the  monsters  of  Desire,  the 
monsters  of  the  Flesh,  and  beyond  the  arid  beach  is 
the  Sea.     Sorrow,  I  have  built  your  house,  and  the 
trees  have  mottled  the  crystals  of  your  basins  like  a 
marble ;  the  white  swan  sees  its  black  shadow  in  the 
water,  as  pale  Joy  sees  in  the  lake  of  my  memory  her 
silver  wings  dimmed  by  a  twilight  through  which 
her  naked  face,  recoiling  from  her,  makes  signs  to  her 
across  the  forever  that  she  is  dead ;   and  I,  who  have 
come  in  without  shutting  the  door,  I  am  afraid  in  the 
darkness  of  some  hand  on  the  key ;   and  I  walk  from 
room  to  room,  and  I  have  veiled  my  dreams  not  to  see 
myself  in  them  any  more ;    but,  from  beyond,  I  still 


Appendix  A  389 

feel  shadows  dogging  my  footsteps;  and  the  crystal 
which  tinkles,  and  the  watered  silk  which  my  per- 
petually-weary hand  crumples,  warn  my  anguish,  for 
I  hear  in  the  hypocritical,  sleeping  chandelier  the 
sound  of  silver  water  laughing  in  golden  flowers,  and 
the  dripping  of  antique  fountains  v/here  Narcissus 
drank,  lips  pressed  to  his  own  lips,  for  which  the  spring 
laughed  at  the  anxious  drinker;  and  I  cursed  my 
mouth,  and  I  cursed  my  eyes,  for  having  seen  the 
warm  skin  and  touched  the  cold  water,  and  when 
my  fingers  again  wrinkle  the  stiff  stuff,  I  hear,  out  of 
my  gossiping  past  which  will  not  be  still,  the  leaves 
and  the  wind  of  the  old  forest;  and  I  walk  among 
the  solitary  rooms  where  some  one  speaks  with  a 
pretence  of  being  silent,  for  my  life  has  the  eyes  of  a 
sister  who  is  not  dead,  and  I  am  afraid,  when  I  enter, 
of  seeing  from  the  threshold  of  the  door  some  laughing 
and  ghostly  monster  come  from  the  shadow  with  the 
smell  of  the  woods  on  his  naked  hide,  some  Faun  who 
still  has  mud,  and  grass,  and  leaves,  sticking  to  his  reso- 
nant shoes,  and  of  seeing  him,  in  the  silent  room,  danc- 
ing upon  the  polished  floor  and  laughing  to  himself  in 
the  mirrors ! 

THE  VASE 

Page  775.  My  heavy  hammer  rang  in  the  light  air ;  I  saw  the 
river  and  the  orchard,  the  field,  and  as  far  as  the 
woods,  beneath  the  sky  growing  bluer  hour  by  hour, 
then  rose  and  mauve  in  the  twilight ;  then  I  stood  up 
straight  and  stretched  myself,  happy  in  the  task 
of  the  hours,  numb  with  having  crouched  from  dawn 


390  ^ix  French  Poets 

till  twilight  before  the  block  of  marble  upon  which  I 
cut  out  the  sides  of  the  vase,  still  in  its  shell,  that  my 
ponderous  hammer  struck,  stressing  the  clear  morn- 
ing and  the  good  day,  happy  at  being  resonant  in  the 
light  air. 

The  vase  took  shape  in  the  worked  stone.  Slender 
and  pure,  it  had  grown  larger,  still  unformed  in  its 
slendemess,  and  I  waited,  with  idle  and  unquiet 
hands,  for  days,  turning  my  head  to  the  left,  to  the 
right,  at  the  sHghtest  sound,  without  polishing  the 
belly  farther  or  lifting  the  hammer.  The  water  ran 
from  the  spring  as  though  breathless.  In  the  silence, 
I  heard  the  fruits  of  the  orchard  trees  falling,  one  by 
one,  from  branch  to  branch ;  I  breathed  a  heralding 
perfume  of  distant  flowers  on  the  wind ;  often  I 
thought  that  some  one  spoke  low,  and  one  day  that  I 
dreamed  —  not  sleeping  —  I  heard,  beyond  the  fields 
and  the  river,  the  playing  of  flutes. 

Still  another  day,  between  the  ochre  and  gold 
leaves  of  the  woods,  I  saw  a  faun  with  shaggy  yellow 
legs  dancing ;  I  caught  sight  of  him  also,  another 
time,  coming  out  of  the  wood,  along  the  road,  and 
sitting  down  upon  a  stump  to  take  a  butterfly  from 
one  of  his  horns. 

Another  time,  a  centaur  crossed  the  river  swim- 
ming, the  water  streamed  from  his  man's  skin  and 
his  horse's  coat;  he  advanced  a  few  steps  into  the 
reeds,  snuffed  the  wind,  whinneyed,  and  crossed  back 


Appendix  A  391 

over  the  water ;  the  next  day  I  saw  the  prints  of  his 
hoofs  stamped  in  the  grass. 

Naked  women  passed  carrying  baskets  and  sheaves, 
very  far  off,  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  plain.  One 
morning  I  found  three  at  the  spring,  and  one  of  them 
spoke  to  me.  She  was  naked.  She  said  to  me : 
"  Carve  the  stone  after  the  form  of  my  body  in  your 
thoughts,  and  make  my  bright  face  smile  in  the 
marble  block ;  listen  all  round  you  to  the  hours 
danced  by  my  sisters,  whose  circle  winds  itself, 
interlaced,  and  revolves  and  sings  and  unwinds." 

And  I  felt  her  warm  mouth  upon  my  cheek. 

Then  the  vast  orchard,  and  the  woods,  and  the 
plain,  shivered  to  a  strange  noise,  and  the  spring 
ran  faster,  with  a  laugh  in  its  waters ;  the  three 
Nymphs  standing  near  the  three  reeds  took  one 
another  by  the  hand  and  danced;  red-haired  fauns 
came  out  of  the  wood  in  troupes,  and  voices  sang 
beyond  the  trees  of  the  orchard,  with  flutes  awake 
in  the  light  air.  The  ground  echoed  to  the  gallop  of 
centaurs ;  they  came  from  the  depths  of  the  resonant 
horizon,  and  one  saw  lame  satyrs,  stung  by  bees, 
sitting  on  the  rushing  cruppers,  holding  twisted  staves 
and  big-bellied  leather  bottles ;  hairy  mouths  and 
vermilHon  Ups  kissed  each  other,  and  the  immense 
and  frenzied  circle  —  heavy  hoofs,  light  feet,  fleeces, 
cruppers,  tunics  —  turned  wildly  about  me,  who, 
grave  while  it  went  on,  carved  on  the  rounded  sides 
of  the  vase  the  whirl  of  the  forces  of  life. 


392  Six  French  Poets 

From  the  perfume  sent  out  by  the  ripe  earth,  an 
intoxication  mounted  through  my  thoughts,  and  in 
the  smell  of  fruits  and  crushed  grapes,  in  the  shock 
of  hoofs  and  the  stamping  of  heels,  in  the  fallow 
odour  of  goats  and  stallions,  under  the  breeze  of  the 
circle  and  the  hail  of  laughter,  I  carved  upon  the 
marble  what  I  heard  humming ;  and  amidst  the  hot 
flesh  and  the  warm  exhalations,  neighings  of  muzzles 
or  murmurings  of  lips,  I  felt,  loving  or  savage,  upon 
my  hands,  the  breath  of  nostrils  or  the  kisses  of 
mouths. 

Twilight  came  and  I  turned  my  head. 

My  intoxication  was  dead  with  the  accomplished 
task;  and  upon  its  pedestal,  at  last,  from  foot  to 
handles,  the  great  vase  stood  up  naked  in  the  silence, 
and  carved  in  a  spiral  about  its  living  marble,  the 
dispersed  circle,  of  which  a  feeble  wind  brought  the 
echo  of  the  vanished  noise,  turned,  with  its  goats, 
its  gods,  its  naked  women,  its  rearing  centaurs,  and 
its  nimble  fauns,  silently  round  the  side,  while  alone 
forever  in  the  gloomy  night,  I  cursed  the  dawn  and 
wept  toward  the  darkness. 

FOR  THE  GATE  OF  THE  WARRIORS 

Page  lyg.  High  gate !  Never  fear  the  darkness,  leave  open 
your  door  of  hard  bronze  and  your  door  of  iron.  They 
have  thrown  your  keys  into  the  cistern.     Be  forever 


Appendix  A  393 

cursed  if  fear  closes  you ;  and,  as  with  a  two-edged 
knife,  cut  the  fist  from  every  hand  which  would 
shut  you;  for  under  your  sombre  arch  which  re- 
sounded to  their  footsteps,  men  have  passed  who  do 
not  draw  back,  and  Victory,  still  ready  and  panting, 
walked  in  the  midst  of  them,  naked  in  her  golden 
wings,  and  guided  them  with  the  calm  gesture  of  her 
sword;  and  her  ardent  purple  kiss  upon  their  lips 
bled,  and  the  trumpets  thrilled  to  the  roses  of  their 
mouths,  murmur  of  copper  and  of  savage  bees ! 
Drunken  swarm  of  war  in  hives  of  armour,  go  and 
pluck  death  upon  the  flower  of  ripe  flesh ;  and  if  you 
come  back  to  your  native  town,  may  one  be  able  to 
trace  when  they  shall  have  passed.  Victory,  under 
your  wings,  the  mark  of  bright  blood  from  their 
red  soles  on  the  marble  stones  of  my  threshold. 

FOR  THE  GATE  OF  THE  MERCHANTS 

Page  180.  Be  blessed,  black  portal,  which  we  saluted  in  en- 
tering !  The  strong  coffers  balanced  on  the  backs 
of  asses ;  to  display  them  in  the  courtyards  we 
brought  what  one  fashions  by  night,  what  one  em- 
broiders by  day,  the  bright  pendant,  and  the  woven 
stuff.  The  oldest  among  us  carried  a  caduceus,*  he 
was  the  scrupulous  master  of  barters  and  traffics ; 
and  the  humpbacked  gourd  and  strange  pearls  were 
mingled  together  in  our  dusty  hands ;  and  each  one, 
purveyor  of  provisions  or  merchant  of  perfumes, 
emptied  his  baskets  and  swelled  his  wallet ;  for  every 

*  Mercury's  wand.     Mercury  was  the  god  of  commerce,  hence  of 

merchants. 


394  '^'^^  French  Poets 

buyer  gives  way  to  the  gesture  which  catches  him 
by  the  hem  of  his  robe  or  the  tail  of  his  cloak.  The 
smallest  ones  climbed  on  high  stools,  and  the  gentlest 
as  well  as  the  most  crafty  counted  and  recoimted  their 
piles  of  gold  as  they  left ;  and  each  one,  —  that 
the  highwaymen  on  the  watch  for  coin  shoiild  not 
wait  for  him  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedges  in  the 
deserted  road,  O  Gate !  that  a  god  should  give  us 
rapid  steps  —  each  one,  without  looking  at  the  one 
who  follows  him,  nails  a  copper  piece  upon  your 
stone  sill. 

FOR  THE  GATE  OF  THE  COMEDIANS 

Page  i8i.  The  chariot  stops  at  the  angle  of  my  wall.  The 
evening  is  fine,  the  sky  is  blue,  the  grain  is  ripe; 
about  the  fountain  the  Nymph  turns  and  dances; 
the  Faun  laughs ;  mysterious  Summer  brings  back, 
at  its  hour,  the  wandering  troop,  and  the  old  chariot, 
and  those  whose  acting,  by  means  of  masks  and 
paint,  impersonates  upon  the  trestle  on  which  their 
naked  feet  rest,  the  popular  fable  or  the  ingenuous 
myth,  and  the  divine,  human,  and  monstrous  story 
which,  in  the  mirror  of  the  fountain,  at  the  bottom 
of  deep  grottoes,  with  bounds  and  cries  and  laughs, 
the  silvery  Dryad  and  the  yellow  Satyr  take  up  again, 
from  age  to  age,  in  the  shade  of  the  great  woods. 
Come !  the  moment  is  propitious  and  the  crowd  is 
silent;  already  expectation  smiles  in  the  bright 
eyes  of  children  and  gentle  old  men,  and  through 
my  gate,  which,  for  you,  will  open  wide,  hospitable 
and  gay  and  heavy  with  garlands,  I  see  you  who 


Appendix  A  395 

come,  a  rose  in  your  hand,  with  your  bright  cloaks 
and  your  painted  faces,  and,  smiling,  each  one  before 
entering  puts  her  foot  up  on  the  stone  and  laces  her 
buskin. 

FOR   THE   GATE   WHICH   GOES   DOWN   TO   THE   SEA 

Page  182.  I,  the  Keeper  of  the  poop,  and  the  Watcher  at  the 
prow,  who  have  known  the  buffet  of  waves  on  my 
cheek,  the  wind  shaking  out  her  hair  across  the  foam, 
the  clear  water  of  the  amphora  and  the  ashes  of  the 
urn,  and,  silent  brilliance  or  vermillion  flame,  the 
torch  which  starts  up  or  the  lamp  which  watches, 
the  stair  of  the  palace  or  the  threshold  of  the  ruin, 
and  the  welcome  of  the  eyes  of  dawn,  and  the  exile 
of  the  eyes  of  darkness,  and  the  love  which  smiles 
and  the  love  which  weeps,  and  the  cloak  without 
holes  which  the  wind  shreds  to  tatters,  and  the  ripe 
fruit  bleeding,  and  the  head  cut  off  at  the  stroke 
of  the  bill-hook  or  the  flight  of  the  sword,  and, 
vagrant  of  winds  and  courses  and  waves,  of  the 
marine  race  and  the  shock  of  gallops,  I  who  keep 
always  the  noise  and  the  murmur  of  the  shepherd's 
horn  and  the  rower's  song,  here  am  I,  returned  from 
great,  distant  countries  of  stone  and  of  water,  and 
always  alone  in  my  destiny  and  naked,  still  standing 
upright  at  the  impetuous  prow  which  snorts  in  the 
foam ;  and  I  shall  enter  burnt  with  joy  and  the  sun, 
rearing  keel  and  spreading  yard,  with  the  great  pale 
gold  and  bright  silver  birds.  I  shall  enter  by  the 
Gate  which  opens  on  the  Sea ! 


396  Six  French  Poets 

ODELETTE   I 

Page  184.  A  little  reed  has  sufficed  me  to  make  the  tall  grass 
rustle,  and  the  whole  meadow,  and  the  gentle  willows, 
and  the  singing  brook  as  well ;  a  little  reed  has 
sufficed  me  to  make  the  forest  sing. 

Those  who  pass  have  heard  it  in  the  depths  of  the 
evening,  in  their  thoughts,  in  the  silence  and  in  the 
wind,  clear  or  lost,  near  or  far  .  .  .  Those  who  pass 
listening  to  their  thoughts  in  the  depths  of  themselves 
will  hear  it  still,  and  hear  it  always  singing. 

It  has  sufficed  me,  this  Httle  reed  gathered  at  the 
spring  where  Love  comes  sometimes  to  mirror  his 
grave,  weeping  face,  to  make  those  who  pass  weep, 
and  to  make  the  grass  tremble  and  the  water  rustle, 
and  I  have  made  the  whole  forest  sing  in  the  breath  of 
a  reed. 

ODE   III 

Page  18s.  I  have  known  you,  dear  naked  Shade,  with  your 
hair  heavy  with  sunlight  and  pale  gold,  with  your 
smiling  mouth  and  your  sweet  flesh.  From  my  most 
distant  days  beyond,  you  have  come,  at  the  ends 
of  old  roads  of  corn  and  mosses,  along  meadows, 
beside  woods,  when  I  followed  the  path  and  the  brook, 
happy  in  the  clear  brook  and  the  fresh  pathway, 
and  in  my  hands,  between  my  fingers,  the  flower 
gathered  in  the  thick  grass  was  all  damp  with  dew 
and  trembling  with  the  gold  of  a  resting  bee.    At  the 


Appendix  A  397 

April  season  when  the  reeds  sang  of  themselves  at 
the  slightest  breeze,  near  waters  and  fountains,  I 
knew  you,  once,  sitting  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
porch  of  Life  and  of  Dream  and  of  the  Year  —  you, 
who,  from  the  threshold,  plaited  coronals  and 
watched  the  coming  of  dawn. 

I  have  seen  you  again,  dear  naked  Shade,  with 
your  hair  reddened  with  ruddy  gold,  solemn  with  all 
the  weight  of  its  Autumn ;  the  old  East  wind  weeps 
in  the  hedges,  heavy  with  wandering,  and  with  trail- 
ing wing;  the  vine  loosens  itself  from  the  trunk  as 
it  unwinds,  and  the  earth  crumbles  from  the  slope 
which  holds  it ;  Joy  is  brief,  and  the  hour  passes,  and 
each  one  walks  toward  another  which  draws  back, 
and  the  flower  of  dawn  is  fruit  at  twilight,  and  the 
golden  fruit  of  evening  is  ashes  in  the  night. 

I  saw  you  again,  you  were  naked,  as  at  the  dawn 
when  I  came  by  the  road  of  the  com,  I  who  return  to 
you  by  the  stubble  road,  with  the  trembling  evening, 
and  the  steps  of  Autumn,  to  the  echoes  of  my  life 
when  Spring  was  laughing.  What  will  you  put  in 
the  hands  which  return  holds  out  to  you?  For  I 
have  lost  the  obolus,  and  the  ring,  and  the  key,  and 
the  flower  crown  of  hope,  from  which  I  felt  the  rose 
and  the  laurel  fall,  petal  by  petal ;  the  opal  is  shat- 
tered in  the  unset  ring,  and  again  my  voice  hesitates 
to  pray  to  you,  for  forever  standing,  finger  on  mouth, 
as  though  to  listen  to  the  echo  of  time  which  flies, 
your  obstinate  silence,  patient  and  austere,  watches 
the  darkness  come  and  weeps  to  the  night. 


398  Six  French  Poets 

Page  I  go.  I  pretended  that  Gods  had  spoken  to  me ;  this 
one  streaming  with  seaweed  and  water,  this  other 
weighed  down  with  bunches  of  grapes  and  corn,  this 
other  winged,  wild  and  beautiful  in  his  stature  of 
naked  flesh,  and  this  one  always  veiled,  and  this  other 
again,  who  picks  heartsease  and  hemlock,  singing, 
and  who  winds  two  twisting  serpents  about  his  golden 
staff,  others  still  .  .  . 

Then  I  said:  Here  are  flutes  and  baskets,  let  us 
eat  fruits;  let  us  listen  to  the  singing  of  the  bees 
and  the  humble  sound  of  green  osiers  being  plaited  or 
reeds  being  cut. 

Again  I  said :  Listen,  listen,  there  is  some  one 
behind  the  echo,  standing  upright  amid  the  universal 
life,  who  carries  the  double  bow  and  the  double  torch, 
and  who  is  ourselves  divinely  .  .  . 

Invisible  face !  I  have  engraved  you  upon  medals 
of  silver,  mellow  like  the  pale  dawn;  of  gold,  blaz- 
ing like  the  sun ;  of  bronze,  dark  like  night ;  I  have 
them  of  every  metal,  those  which  sing  clear  like  joy, 
those  which  toll  heavily  like  glory,  like  love,  like 
death ;  and  I  have  made  the  most  beautiful  of  fine 
clay,  dry  and  fragile. 

One  by  one,  you  counted  them,  smiling,  and  you 
said :  He  is  clever ;  and  you  passed  on,  smiling. 


Appendix  A  399 

Not  one  of  you  saw  that  my  hands  trembled  with 
tenderness,  that  the  whole  great  terrestrial  dream 
lived  in  me  to  live  in  them,  that  I  engraved  upon 
the  sacred  metals  my  Gods,  and  that  they  were 
the  living  face  of  what  we  have  felt  in  roses,  in  water, 
in  wind,  in  the  forest  and  the  sea,  in  everything,  in 
our  own  flesh,  and  that  they  are  divinely  ourselves. 

THE   SPINNER 

Page  ig2.  Spinner !  The  shadow  is  warm  and  bluish.  A 
bee  buzzes  heavily  in  the  sleeping  sunlight,  and  your 
wheel  mingles  with  this  golden  and  winged  humming 
which  slows  up  little  by  little,  and  sleeps.  It  is  late. 
It  is  evening.  The  grapes  hang  on  the  trellis,  their 
clusters  are  ripe  for  the  swarm  which  sucks  at  them, 
but  to  gather  them  to-morrow,  before  dawn  comes 
and  the  cock  wakes  up,  I  must  still  round  with  my 
palm  and  fashion  with  my  thumb  in  the  obedient  and 
soft  clay  this  amphora  which  swells  between  my  indis- 
tinct hands,  while  my  labour  hears  all  about  it  your 
wheel  imitating  the  harsh  buzzing  of  some  invisible 
wasp  loose  in  the  night. 

MARINE   ODE 

Fage  iQj.  1  hear  the  sea  murmur  in  the  distance  when  the 
wind  in  the  pines,  often,  brings  its  harsh  and  bitter 
sound,  which  stuns,  coos,  or  whistles,  through  the 
pines,  red  against  the  clear  sky  .  .  . 


400  Six  French  Poets 

Sometimes  its  sinuous,  supple  voice  seems  to  creep 
into  the  ear,  then  to  recoil  even  more  softly  into  the 
depths  of  the  twilight,  and  then  it  is  silent  for  days 
as  though  sleeping  with  the  wind,  and  I  forget  it  .  .  . 
but  one  morning  it  begins  again  with  the  surge  and 
the  tide,  louder,  more  despairing,  and  I  hear  it. 

It  is  a  sound  of  water  which  suffers  and  scolds  and 
laments  behind  the  trees  without  our  seeing  it,  calm 
or  foaming,  according  to  whether  the  sunset  bleeds 
or  blushes,  dies  blazing,  or  fades  coolly  away  .  .  . 

Without  this  great  murmur  which  grows  or  ceases, 
and  rolls  or  rocks  my  hours,  each  one,  and  my  thoughts 
—  without  it,  this  crude  and  cracked  country, 
swelled  and  humped  up  here  and  there  by  a  yellow 
hillock  where  roses  grow  with  sparse,  sickly,  hanging 
flowers  —  without  it,  this  bitter  and  morose  place, 
where  I  can  only  see  a  forlorn  horizon  of  solitude  and 
silence,  would  be  too  sad  for  my  thought. 

For  I  am  alone,  you  see.  All  of  Life  still  calls  me  to 
its  past  which  laughs  and  cries  by  a  thousand  eloquent 
mouths,  behind  me,  over  there,  with  hands  stretched 
out,  standing  upright  and  naked ;  and  I,  lying  upon 
the  ground  which  is  so  hard  to  my  bleeding  nails,  I 
have  only  a  Uttle  clay  to  carve  my  quivering  dream 
and  make  its  fragile  form  eternal  —  nothing  else  to 
fashion  my  melodious  medals,  in  the  ochrous  glaze  of 
which  I  know  how  to  make  the  full  face  of  shadow  or 
the  profile  of  light,  Sorrow  smile  or  Beauty  weep  .  .  . 


Appendix  A  401 

But  in  my  soul  afar,  love  mutters  or  coos  like  the 
sea,  over  there,  behind  the  red  pines. 

BATTLE  SCENE 

Page  ig$.  He  is  booted  in  leather  and  cuirassed  with  bronze. 
He  stands  upright  in  the  smoke,  and  over  his  hip 
floats  the  knot  of  the  white  scarf  from  which  his 
sword  hangs.  His  glove  is  crumpled  up  by  the  ges- 
ture of  his  hand. 

His  foot  rests  upon  the  hillock  where  in  the  black 
ground  the  flaming  grenade  opens  a  red  gash,  and  the 
flash  of  the  cannon  empurples  his  rude  and  fresh 
Burgundian  face  with  the  horsehair  wig. 

All  about  him,  everywhere,  confused  and  micro- 
scopic, the  fight  goes  on,  hesitates,  shifts,  holds  its 
ground  —  skirmishes,  melee  and  carnage  and  noble 
deed. 

And  the  naive  painter  who  enlarged  his  size,  was 
no  doubt  praised,  in  those  days,  for  having  made  his 
hero,  all  by  himself,  larger  than  the  battle. 

THE  MONKEY 

Page  ig6.      With  her  paroquet,  her  dog,  and  her  negress,  who 
holds  out  her  dressing-gown  and  dries  the  water  of 
the  bath  on  her  body  which,  whiter  under  the  black 
hand,  bends  its  suppleness  where  the  throat  rises, 
2  D 


402  Six  French  Poets 

She  has  caused  to  be  painted  also,  to  show  her 
tenderness,  for  libertine  humour,  or  jesting  caprice, 
the  life-like  portrait  of  her  African  monkey,  who 
crunches  a  nutmeg  and  scratches  his  buttock. 

Very  grave,  nearly  a  man  and  slyly  a  monkey, 
hairy,  bald,  attentive,  he  picks  his  nut,  and  looks  all 
about,  sitting  up ; 

And  his  bare,  snub-nosed  face  in  which  the  eyes 
move  sneeringly,  contracts  in  a  grimace,  and  wrinkles 
up  his  green  and  yellow  turban  in  which  a  red  plume 
quivers. 

THE   AMATEUR 

Page  igj.  In  his  calm  manor,  between  the  Tille  and  the 
Ouche,  in  the  country  of  Burgundy  where  the  vine 
flourishes,  he  has  lived  tranquil  like  a  ripened  grape. 
For  him  wine  has  flowed  from  uncorked  bottles. 

Friend  of  nature  and  particular  of  palate,  he  courted 
his  muse,  and  left  in  writing,  poems,  madrigals, 
epistles,  pot-pourri,  and  dusty  parchments  to  bear 
witness  to  his  stock. 

If  he  walked  in  the  street  in  Dijon  in  his  horse- 
hair  periwig,  leaning  on  his  malacca  cane,  the  Elite 
of  the  town  and  the  members  of  Parliament 


Appendix  A  403 

Saluted  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  from  a  distance, 
less  for  his  name,  his  fields,  his  vine,  and  his  planta- 
tion, than  for  having  received  three  letters  from 
Voltaire. 

THE  PORCELAIN   CLOCK 

Page  iq8.  The  garden  laughs  to  the  river  and  the  river  sighs 
with  the  eternal  regret  of  his  bank  which  he  is  leav- 
ing, the  wistaria  hangs  down  and  leans  toward  him, 
the  lilac  is  reflected  and  the  jasmine  is  mirrored 
there. 

The  bindweed  darts  forward  and  the  ivy  stretches 
out;  a  new-sprouted  bud  is  a  flower  to-day;  helio- 
trope perfumes  the  darkness,  and  each  night  another 
lily  half  opens  for  dawn  to  admire  it ; 

And  in  the  house,  bright  with  tapestries,  a  flowered 
porcelain  clock  outlines  its  rockwork  where  Love 
decorates  himself  with  garlands, 

And  the  whole  fresh  nosegay  with  which  the  garden 
honours  itself,  survives  in  the  old  Saxe  where  time 
for  offering  has  grafted  the  silver  flower  of  its  clear 
tone. 


404  Six  French  Poets 

SALUTATION  TO  VERSAILLES 

Page  igg.  Whose  soul  is  sad  and  who  brings  to  Autumn'  his 
heart  still  glowing  with  the  ashes  of  Summer,  he  is 
the  sceptreless  Prince  and  the  uncrowned  King  of 
your  solitude  and  your  beauty. 

For  what  he  seeks  in  you,  0  gardens  of  silence,  under 
your  sombre  shade  where  the  sound  of  his  footsteps 
pursues  in  vain  the  echo  which  always  outruns  it, 
what  he  seeks  in  your  shade,  O  gardens,  is  not 

The  secret  murmur  of  the  illustrious  fame  with 
which  the  century  has  filled  your  always  beautiful 
groves,  nor  some  vain  glory  leaning  upon  a  balustrade, 
nor  some  young  grace  beside  the  clear  waters ; 

He  does  not  ask  to  have  pass  or  return  the  immortal 
hero  or  the  famous  living  man  whose  proud  life, 
striking  and  disdainful,  was  the  star  and  the  sun  of 
this  august  place. 

What  he  desires  is  calm,  is  solitude,  the  perspective 
of  alley  and  stairway,  the  rond-point,  the  parterre,  and 
the  effect  of  the  pyramidal  yew  next  to  the  clipped 
box ; 

The  taciturn  grandeur  and  the  monotonous  peace 
of  this  melancholy  and  unrivalled  spot,  and  this 
perfume  of  evening  and  this  smell  of  Autumn  which 
breathes  out  of  the  shade  at  the  end  of  the  day. 


Appendix  A  405 

THE  FACADE 

Page  200.  Glorious,  monumental  and  monotonous,  the  stone 
fagade  wastes  its  crumbling  cornice  and  its  weary 
garland  in  the  passing  wind,  opposite  the  yellow  park 
over  which  Autumn  is  leaning. 

On  the  marble  medallion  with  which  Pallas  crowns 
it,  the  double  letter  still  twines  and  interlaces ;  Her- 
cules wearies  himself  supporting  the  balcony;  the 
fleur  de  lys  drop  their  petals  for  Time  to  harvest. 

Reflected  in  its  deserted  basins,  the  old  Palace 
watches  naked  Solitude  and  the  sleeping  Past  crouch 
in  black  and  green  bronze ; 

But  the  sun,  flaming  in  the  golden  window-panes, 
seems  each  evening  to  light  again  within  it  the  spark 
of  its  benumbed  Glory. 

THE  GREEN  BASIN 

Page  201.  Her  bronze,  which  was  flesh,  Ufts  her  up  in  the 
green  water.  Goddess  once  so  sorrowful  at  being 
a  statue ;  the  moss  little  by  little  is  covering  her 
naked  shoulder,  and  the  silent  urn  hangs  hea\^ly 
from  her  stiffened  hand ; 

The  stagnant  water  perfidiously  reflects  the  shadow 
that  everything  in  it  has  become,  and  its  fluid  mirror, 
in  which  a  cloud  is  stretched  out,  imitates  inversely 
a  sky  which  it  parodies. 


4o6  Six  French  Poets 

The  grass,  perpetually  green,  is  like  a  blue-green 
basin.  It  is  the  same  square  of  equivocal  greenness 
with  which  marble  or  box  frames  grass  or  water. 

And  watch,  in  the  emerald-green  water  and  the 
emerald  grass,  turn  by  turn,  move  about  in  rival 
golds,  the  dead  yellow  leaf  and  the  prowling  carp. 

THE  NYMPH 

Page  202.  The  calm,  sleeping  water  in  its  slumbering  trouble, 
overflows  and  rests  in  the  porphyry  basin  and  in 
the  weeping  fountain,  and  its  greenish-blue  pallors 
reflect  the  cypress  and  reflect  the  rose. 

The  God  and  the  Goddess  stand  opposite  each 
other,  smiling;  one  holds  the  sceptre  and  the  bow, 
the  other  the  urn  and  the  flowers,  and  in  the  alley 
between,  joining  his  shadow  to  theirs.  Love  stands 
upright  and  naked,  and  interposes  himself. 

The  grass  slope  borders  the  clear  canal ;  the  yew 
mirrors  its  mass,  the  holly  its  green  cone,  and  the 
obelisk  alternates  with  the  pyramid; 

A  Dragon  faces  his  enemy  the  Hydra,  and  both  of 
them,  from  the  clammy  holes  of  their  wet  mouths, 
spit  out  a  silver  jet  upon  the  sleeping  Nymph. 


Appendix  A  407 

THE  PAVILION 

Page  203.  The  basket,  the  shepherd's  pouch,  and  the  ribbon 
knotting  the  double  flute  and  the  straight  shepherd's 
crook ;  the  oval  medallion  where  the  narrow  mould- 
ing frames  a  grey  profile  in  the  whiter  panel ; 

The  hurrying  mantel-clock  and  the  tall  clock  with 
slow  steps,  where  Time,  turn  by  turn,  contradicts 
itself  and  limps ;  the  weary  mirror  which  seems  a 
moist  and  shining  water;  the  half -open  door,  and 
the  fluttering  curtain ; 

Some  one  who  has  gone,  some  one  who  will  come, 
Memory  sleeping  with  Recollection,  an  approach 
which  delays  and  dates  from  an  absence ; 

A  window  open  upon  the  bitter  smell  of  box,  and 
upon  roses  from  which  the  wind  swings  the  crystal 
chandelier  above  the  shining  wood  floor. 

SEPTEMBER 

Page  206.  Before  the  harsh  wind  exiles  the  birds,  disperses 
the  leaves  and  dries  up  the  reeds  where  I  used  to  cut 
my  arrows  and  my  flutes,  I  wish,  sitting  on  this  sill 
which  is  framed  by  the  wild  vine,  to  see  again,  with 
my  eyes  already  half  closed  over  the  days  which, 
one  by  one,  we  have  loved,  the  face  which  the  Year 
flying,  month  by  month,  turns  away  smiling  from  the 
shadow  which  was  I. 


4o8  Six  French  Poets 

September,  September,  gatherer  of  fruits,  stripper 
of  hemp,  in  the  clear  mornings,  in  the  red  evenings, 
you  appeared  to  me,  upright  and  beautiful,  against 
the  gold  of  the  forest  leaves,  beside  the  water,  in 
your  dress  of  mist  and  silk,  with  your  hair  reddening 
with  gold,  copper,  blood,  and  amber.  September, 
with  the  fat  goatskin  bottle  loaded  on  your  shoulder, 
hanging  heavily  and  oozing  at  its  vermilion  seams 
about  which  the  last  bees  buzz. 

September!  The  new  wine  ferments,  and  foams 
from  the  cask  into  the  pitchers;  the  cellar  smells 
sweet,  the  granary  sags ;  the  sheaf  of  Summer  gives 
way  to  the  wine-stock  of  Autumn;  the  grindstone 
glistens  with  the  olives  which  it  crushes.  You, 
Lord  of  the  wine-presses,  of  hay-ricks  and  of  hives, 
O  September,  sung  by  all  the  fountains,  listen  to  the 
voice  of  the  poem.  The  evening  is  cold,  the  shadow 
lengthens  from  the  forest,  and  the  sun  goes  down 
behind  the  great  oaks. 

FRANCIS  JAMMES 

Page  2ig.  I  went  to  Monsieur  Lay's,  the  teacher's.  My 
alphabet  was  like  the  flowers.  I  remember  the 
stove  and  the  log  of  wood  that  each  village  child 
brought  when  the  sky  is  a  white  beehive,  and  when 
on  waking  up  one  says :  "It  has  been  snowing !" 

I  remember  also  the  gaiety  of  my  apron,  on  ripe 
Summer  days  when  I  left  school  somewhat  earlier. 


Appendix  A  409 

A  little,  little  fellow,  I  still  had  Heaven  within  my 
eyes  like  a  drop  of  water  through  which  one  can  see 
God. 


Page  220.  .  .  .  The  sight  of  the  monkey  being  shot  is  always 
with  me,  you  understand. 

Page  220.  Water,  foliage,  air,  sand,  roots,  flowers,  grass- 
hoppers, earthworms,  kingfishers,  mist  falling  upon 
a  radish  field,  vine  tendrils  on  the  weaver's  roof :  0 
gentle  genii,  who  have  made  me  their  slave !  You 
amused  me.     I  so  little,  you  so  great ! 

Page  222.  Oh,  Father  of  my  Father,  you  were  there,  before 
my  soul  which  was  not  bom,  and  the  advice-boats 
slipped  by  with  the  wind  in  the  Colonial  night. 

Page  222.  ...  At  the  foot  of  a  blue  guava  tree,  amid  the 
cries  of  the  Ocean  and  the  beach  birds. 

YOU  WROTE    .    .    . 

Page  222.  You  wrote  that  you  hunted  wood-pigeons  in  the 
Guava  woods,  and,  a  little  before  your  death,  the 
doctor  who  took  care  of  you  wrote  about  your  sober 
Ufe. 

"He  lives,"  said  he,  "like  a  native,  in  his  woods." 
You  are  the  father  of  my  father.  Your  old  corre- 
spondence is  in  my  drawer  and  your  life  is  pungent. 


4IO  Six  French  Poets 

You  left  Orthez  as  a  doctor  of  medicine,  to  make 
your  fortune  far  away.  Your  letters  were  brought 
by  a  sailor,  by  Captain  Folat. 

You  were  ruined  by  earthquakes  in  the  country 
where  rain-water  is  caught  in  tubs  and  drunk,  heavy, 
unhealthy,  bitter  .  .  .    And  all  that,  you  wrote. 

And  you  bought  an  apothecary's  shop.  You 
wrote:  "The  capital  has  nothing  like  it."  And 
you  said :   "My  life  has  made  me  a  real  Creole." 

You  are  buried  there,  I  think,  in  Guava.  And  I 
am  writing  in  the  place  where  you  were  bom :  your 
old  correspondence  is  very  sad  and  grave.  It  is  in 
my  chest  of  drawers,  locked  up. 

Page  226.  Oh,  Jammes,  your  house  is  like  your  face.  A 
beard  of  ivy  climbs  up  it,  a  pine-tree  shades  it,  eter- 
nally young  and  spirited  like  your  heart. 

THE  HOUSE  WOULD   BE  FULL  OF   ROSES  .  .  . 

Tage  227.  The  house  would  be  full  of  roses  and  wasps.  In  the 
afternoon  one  would  hear  the  ringing  of  vespers ;  and 
the  transparent-stone-coloured  grapes  would  seem  to 
sleep  in  the  sunshine  under  the  slow  shadow.  How  I 
should  love  you  there !  I  give  you  my  whole  heart 
which   is   twenty-four   years   old,   and   my   mocking 


Appendix  A  \ii 

spirit,  my  pride,  and  my  poetry  of  white  roses ;  and 
yet  I  do  not  know  you,  you  do  not  exist.  I  only 
know  that  if  you  were  living,  and  if  you  were  at  the 
bottom  of  this  meadow,  as  I  am,  we  would  kiss  each 
other,  laughing,  under  the  white  bees,  near  the  cool 
brook,  under  the  thick  leaves.  We  should  hear 
nothing  but  the  heat  of  the  sunshine.  You  would 
have  the  shadow  of  the  hazels  on  your  ear,  then  we 
would  join  our  mouths  and  stop  laughing,  to  tell  our 
love  which  cannot  be  told ;  and  I  should  find  upon  the 
red  of  your  lips,  the  taste  of  white  grapes,  of  red  roses, 
and  of  wasps. 

THE   DINING  ROOM 

Page  228.  There  is  a  cupboard,  not  very  shiny,  which  has 
heard  the  voices  of  my  great-aunts,  which  has  heard 
the  voice  of  my  grandfather,  which  has  heard  the  voice 
of  my  father.  The  cupboard  is  faithful  to  these 
memories.  One  is  wrong  in  thinking  that  it  only 
knows  how  to  be  silent,  for  I  talk  with  it. 

There  is  also  a  wooden  cuckoo-clock.  I  do  not  know 
why  it  has  no  voice  any  more.  I  do  not  like  to  ask  it. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  it  is  broken  —  the  voice  which  was  in 
its  spring  —  for  good,  like  that  of  a  dead  person. 

There  is  also  an  old  sideboard  which  smells  of  wax, 
preserves,  meat,  bread,  and  ripe  pears.  It  is  a  faith- 
ful servant  which  knows  that  it  ought  not  to  steal 
anything  from  us. 


412  Six  French  Poets 

Many  men  and  women  have  come  to  my  house  who 
do  not  believe  in  these  little  souls.  And  I  smile  when 
a  visitor,  thinking  that  I  am  the  only  living  thing, 
says  to  me  as  he  comes  in :  "  How  are  you,  Monsieur 
Jammes  ?  " 

I   WRITE   IN   AN   OLD  KIOSK     .    .    . 

Page  230.  I  write  in  an  old  kiosk,  so  bushy  that  it  is  damp,  and 
Hke  a  Chinaman,  I  Usten  to  the  water  of  the  pool  and 
the  voice  of  a  bird  —  there,  near  the  water  -(sh !) 

fall.  I  am  going  to  light  my  pipe.  This  is  it.  I  level 
the  ashes.  Then  memory  gently  descends  in  poetic 
inspiration. 

"/  have  come  too  late  into  too  old  a  world,"  and  I  am 
bored,  I  am  bored  at  not  being  present  at  a  circle  of 
little  girls  with  great  wide  hats. 

"Cora,  you  will  get  the  bottom  of  your  pantalets 
dirty  if  you  touch  that  wretched  dog."  That  is  what 
little  girls  of  fashion  would  have  said  on  an  evening 
of  the  olden  time. 

They  would  have  looked  at  me,  smiling,  as  I  slowly 
smoked  my  pipe,  and  my  little  niece  would  have  said, 
gravely :    "He  is  going  in  to  write  verses  now." 

And  her  little  companions,  without  understanding, 
would  have  stopped  the  charming  chatter  of  their 


Appendix  A  413 

circle  for  a  moment,  believing  that  verses  were  going 
to  be  seen  —  perhaps. 

"He  has  been  to  Touggourt,  my  dear,"  the  circle 
of  older  scholars  would  have  said.  And  Nancy  would 
have  announced:  "There  are  savages  and  drome- 
daries." 

Then,  I  should  have  seen  issue  upon  the  road  the 
caracoling  of  the  donkeys  of  many  gentlemen  and 
many  ladies  coming  back,  in  the  evening,  from  a  ride. 

My  heart,  my  heart,  is  it  only  in  death  that  you 
will  find  again  this  immense  love  for  those  whom  you 
have  not  known  in  those  tender  and  deceased  days? 


THE   USEFUL  CALENDAR 

Page  233.  In  the  month  of  March  (the  Ram  T),  one  sows 
clover,  carrots,  cabbages,  and  lucerne.  One  stops 
harrowing,  and  one  puts  manure  at  the  foot  of  the 
trees,  and  one  prepares  the  beds.  One  finishes  the 
pruning  of  the  vines,  and  after  having  ventilated 
them,  one  puts  the  poles  in  place. 

It  is  the  end  of  Winter  rations  for  the  beasts. 
Heifers  with  beautiful  eyes,  and  whose  mothers  lick 
them,  are  no  longer  led  to  tlie  fields,  but  are  given 
fresh  nourishment.  The  days  increase  by  one  hour 
and  fifty  minutes.  The  evenings  are  sweet,  and,  at 
twilight,  straggling  goatherds  puff  their  cheeks  out 


414  -Six  French  Poets 

over  flutes.     Goats  pass  in  front  of  the  good  dog, 
who  wags  his  tail  and  is  their  guardian. 


Page  233.  At  last  the  beautiful  Palm  Sunday  comes.  When 
I  was  a  child,  they  attached  some  cakes  to  me,  and  I 
went  to  vespers,  docile  and  sad.  My  mother  said : 
"  In  my  country  there  were  olives  .  .  .  Jesus  wept  in 
an  olive  garden  .  .  .  They  went,  with  great  pomp, 
to  seek  for  him  ...  In  Jerusalem,  people  wept, 
calling  his  name  .  .  .  He  was  gentle  like  the  sky, 
and  his  little  ass-foal  trotted  joyously  over  the  strewn 
palms.  Embittered  beggars  sobbed  for  joy  as  they 
followed  him,  because  they  had  faith  .  .  .  Bad 
women  became  good,  seeing  him  pass  with  his  halo, 
so  beautiful  that  one  believed  it  to  be  the  sun.  He 
had  a  smile  and  hair  of  honey.  He  raised  the 
dead  .  .  .  They  crucified  him  ..."  I  remember 
this  childhood  and  the  vespers,  and  I  weep,  my  throat 
convulsed  at  being  no  more  the  very  little  boy  in  these 
old  months  of  March,  at  being  no  more  in  the  old 
village  church  where  I  carried  the  incense  in  the  pro- 
cession and  where  I  listened  to  the  priest  repeating  the 
Passion. 

Page  234.  You  will  find  it  pleasant,  in  the  month  of  March, 
to  walk  over  the  black  violets  with  your  mistress.  In 
the  shade  you  will  find  the  milk-blue  periwinkles,  be- 
loved of  Jean-Jacques,  the  sad,  passionate  man. 

In  the  woods  you  will  find  lungwort,  with  its  violet 
and  wine-coloured  flower,  the  leaves  verdigris,  spotted 


Appendix  A  415 

with  white,  hairy  and  very  rough  ;  there  is  a  holy 
legend  about  it.  The  lady's  smock  to  which  the 
saffron  butterfly  comes ;  the  light  crowfoot  and  the 
black  hellebore  ;  the  hyacinth  which  one  crushes  easily, 
and  which,  crushed,  has  sticky  brightnesses;  the  evil- 
smelling  jonquil,  the  anemone,  and  the  narcissus  which 
makes  one  think  of  the  snows  of  Swiss  mountain 
sides ;  then  the  ground-ivy,  good  for  asthmatics. 

THESE  ARE  THE  LABOURS  .  .  . 

Page  235.  These  are  the  labours  of  man  which  are  great :  the 
one  which  puts  the  milk  into  the  wooden  jars ;  the  one 
which  picks  the  sharp  and  upright  ears  of  corn ;  the 
one  which  watches  the  cows  close  to  the  fresh  alders ; 
the  one  which  bleeds  the  forest  birches ;  the  one 
which  plaits  osiers  near  quick  brooks ;  the  one  which 
repairs  old  shoes  near  a  dim  chimney-corner,  with  its 
old  mangy  cat,  a  sleeping  blackbird,  and  happy  chil- 
dren ;  the  one  which  weaves  and  makes  a  returning 
noise,  when,  at  midnight,  the  crickets  sing  piercingly ; 
the  one  which  makes  bread ;  the  one  which  makes 
wine ;  the  one  which  sows  garlic  and  cabbage  in  the 
garden ;  and  the  one  which  gathers  warm  eggs. 

THE  VILLAGE  AT  NOON  .  .  . 

Page  236.  The  village  at  noon.  The  golden  fly  buzzes  be- 
tween the  horns  of  the  oxen.  We  will  wander,  if  you 
like,  if  you  like,  in  the  monotonous  country. 

Hear  the  cock  .  .  .    Hear  the  bell  .  .  .    Hear  the 
peacock  .  .  .     Hear,    over    there,    over    there,    the 


4i6  Six  French  Poets 

donkey  .  .  .     The  black  swallow  soars.    The  poplars 
in  the  distance  roll  out  like  a  ribbon. 


The  well  eaten  up  with  moss !  Listen  to  its  pulley, 
grating,  grating  again,  for  the  girl  with  the  golden 
hair  holds  the  old  black  bucket  from  which  the  silver 
falls  like  rain. 

The  young  girl  walks  away  with  a  step  which  makes 
the  pitcher  lean  sideways  on  her  golden  head,  her  head 
like  a  hive,  which  mingles  with  the  sunshine  under 
the  flowers  of  a  peach-tree. 

And  in  the  town,  see  how  the  black  roofs  shoot  blue 
flakes  at  the  blue  sky ;  and  the  lazy  trees  at  the  quiver- 
ing horizon  scarcely  sway. 

LISTEN,  IN  THE  GARDEN  .  .  . 

Page  23Q.      Listen,  in  the  garden  which  smells  of  chervil,  listen 
to  the  bullfinch  singing  in  the  peach-tree. 

His  song  is  like  clear  water  in  which  the  air  bathes 
itself,  trembling. 

My  heart  is  sad  unto  death,  even  though  many 
have  been,  and  one  is,  mad  about  it. 

The  first  is  dead.  The  second  is  dead ;  —  and  I 
don't  know  where  another  is. 


Appendix  A  417 

There  is  still  one,  however,  who  is  as  lovely  as  the 
moon  .  .  . 

I  am  going  to  see  her  this  afternoon.    We  wiU  take 
a  walk  in  a  town  .  .  . 

Will  it  be  in  the  bright  quarter  of  rich  villas,  of 
strange  gardens  ? 

Roses  and  laurels,  railings,  shut  gates,  have  an  air 
of  knowing  something. 

Ah,  if  I  were  rich,  that  is  where  I  should  live  with 
AmaryUia. 

I  call  her  Amaryllia.     How  silly  !     No,  it  is  not  silly. 
I  am  a  poet. 

Do  you  imagine  it  is  amusing  to  be  a  poet  at  twenty- 
eight  ? 

In  my  purse  I  have  ten  francs  and  two  sous  for  my 
powder.     It  is  annoying. 

I  conclude  from  that  that  Amaryllia  loves  me,  and 
loves  me  for  myself  alone. 

Neither  the  Mercure  nor  VErmitage  pay  me  wages. 


41 8  Six  French  Pojts 

She  is  really  very  nice,  Amaryllia,  and  as  intelligent 
as  I. 

Fifty  francs  are  lacking  to  our  happiness.     One 
cannot  have  everything  —  and  the  heart. 

Perhaps  if  Rothschild  said  to  her :  "Come  along  ..." 
She  would  answer  him : 

"No,  you  shall  not  have  my  little  dress,  because  I 
love  another  ..." 

And  if  Rothschild  said  to  her  :   "What  is  the  name 
of  this  .  .  .  of  this  .  .  .  of  this  .  .  .  poet?" 

She  would  say  to  him:    "It  is  Francis  Jammes." 
But  the  sad  thing  about  all  that  would  be : 

That  I  do  not  think  that  Rothschild  would  know 
who  that  poet  was. 

PRAYER  TO   GO  TO  PARADISE  WITH  THE   DONKEYS 

Page  242.  When  the  time  for  going  to  you  will  have  come,  O 
my  God,  let  it  be  on  a  day  when  the  countryside  is 
dusty  with  a  festival.  I  wish,  just  as  I  do  here,  to 
choose  the  road  and  go  as  I  please  to  Paradise,  where 
there  are  stars  in  broad  daylight.  I  will  take  my  stick 
and  I  will  go  along  the  high  road,  and  I  will  say  to  the 
donkeys,  my  friends:  "I  am  Francis  Jammes  and  I 
am  going  to  Paradise,  because  there  is  no  hell  in  the 


Appendix  A  419 

country  of  the  Good  God."  I  will  say  to  them: 
"Come,  gentle  friends  of  the  blue  sky,  poor,  dear 
animals,  who,  with  a  sudden  movement  of  the  ears, 
drive  away  silver  flies,  blows,  and  bees  ..." 

Grant  that  I  appear  before  you  in  the  midst  of  these 
animals  that  I  love  so  much,  because  they  hang  their 
heads  gently,  and  when  they  stop  put  their  little  feet 
together  in  a  very  sweet  and  pitiful  way.  I  shall  ar- 
rive followed  by  their  miUions  of  ears,  followed  by 
those  who  carry  baskets  on  their  flanks,  by  those  who 
draw  acrobats'  carts  or  carts  of  feather-dusters 
and  tin  ware,  by  those  who  have  dented  cans  on  their 
backs,  she-asses  full  hke  gourds,  with  halting  steps, 
and  those  on  whom  they  put  little  pantaloons  because 
of  the  blue  and  running  sores  which  the  obstinate  flies 
make,  sticking  in  circles.  My  God,  grant  that  I  come 
to  you  with  these  asses.  Grant  that  angels  conduct  us 
in  peace  to  tufted  streams,  where  glossy  cherry-trees 
quiver  like  the  laughing  flesh  of  young  girls,  and  grant 
that,  leaning  over  your  divine  waters  in  this  place  of 
souls,  I  become  like  the  donkeys  who  mirror  their 
humble  and  gentle  poverty  in  the  clearness  of  eternal 
love. 


Page  243.       It  is  a  watch-dog  barking  to  the  moonlight  as  its 
shadow  moves  over  the  roses. 

Page  243.      We  awaited  it  at  that  red  hour  when  noon-day  bal- 
ances its  blue  wings  over  country  belfries. 


420  Six  French  Poets 

AMSTERDAM 

Page  145.  The  pointed  houses  have  the  appearance  of  leaning 
over.  One  would  say  that  they  were  falling.  The 
masts  of  the  ships,  confused  against  the  sky,  are  bent 
over  like  dry  branches  in  the  midst  of  green,  of  red, 
of  rust,  of  smoked  herrings,  of  sheepskins,  and  of  coal. 

Robinson  Crusoe  passed  through  Amsterdam  (at 
least  I  believe  he  did),  coming  back  from  the  shady 
and  green  island  of  fresh  cocoanuts.  What  an  emo- 
tion he  must  have  had  when  he  saw  the  enormous 
doors  of  the  town,  with  their  heavy  knockers,  shining. 

Did  he  look  curiously  at  the  entresols  where  clerks 
were  writing  in  account  books?  Did  he  feel  like 
weeping  when  he  thought  of  his  dear  parrot,  of  his 
heavy  parasol,  which  sheltered  him  in  the  sorrowful 
and  clement  island  ? 

"Blessed  be  thou,  0  Eternal  One,"  he  cried  to  him- 
self, before  the  chests  brightly  painted  with  tulips. 
But  his  heart,  saddened  by  the  joy  of  return,  regretted 
his  goat,  who  remained  all  alone  among  the  vines  of 
the  island,  and  was  dead  perhaps. 

And  I  thought  of  this  in  front  of  the  big  warehouses 
where  one  dreams  of  Jews  touching  the  scales  with 
bony  fingers  encircled  by  green  rings.  See !  Am- 
sterdam sleeps  under  the  eyelids  of  the  snow  in  a  per- 
fume of  fog  and  acrid  charcoal. 


Appendix  A  421 

Yesterday  evening  the  lit  white  globes  of  the  cheap 
saloons  from  which  you  hear  the  wheezing  entreaties 
of  heavy  women,  hung  like  fruits  which  resemble 
gourds.  Blue,  red,  green,  the  posters  glittered.  The 
sharp  prickling  of  sugared  beer  has  rasped  my  tongue 
and  made  my  nose  itch. 

And  in  the  Jewish  quarters  where  the  residue  is, 
one  smelt  the  raw  cold  odour  of  fish.  On  the  sticky 
pavements  was  orange  peel.  A  bloated  head  opened 
its  eyes  wide,  and  onions  were  shaken  from  a  disputing 
arm. 

Rebecca,  at  little  tables  you  sold  perspiring  bonbons, 
wretchedly  arranged. 

One  would  have  said  that  the  sky,  like  a  dirty  sea, 
emptied  clouds  of  waves  into  the  canals.  A  smoke 
which  one  does  not  see,  the  commercial  calm,  rose 
from  the  wealthy  roofs  in  imposing  layers,  and  one 
breathed  India  in  the  comfort  of  the  houses. 

Ah,  I  should  like  to  have  been  a  great  merchant,  of 
those  who  used  to  go  from  Amsterdam  to  China,  con- 
fiding the  administration  of  their  houses  to  faithful 
proxies.  Like  Robinson,  I  would  have  signed  my 
power  of  attorney  pompously  before  a  notary. 

Then,  my  integrity  would  have  made  my  fortune. 
My  business  would  have  flourished  like  a  moonbeam 


422  Six  French  Poets 

upon  the  imposing  prow  of  my  barrelled  ship.  In  my 
cabin  I  should  have  received  the  nobles  of  Bombay, 
who  would  have  tempted  my  buxom  wife. 

Smiling  under  his  great  parasol,  a  negro  with  gold 
earrings  come  from  the  Great  Mogul  to  trade !  His 
wild  tales  would  have  enchanted  my  slender  eldest 
daughter,  to  whom  he  would  have  offered  a  dress  with 
rubies,  spun  by  his  slaves. 

I  should  have  had  the  portraits  of  my  family  painted 
by  some  clever  painter  whose  lot  had  been  unfortu- 
nate :  my  beautiful  and  portly  wife  with  fair,  pink 
cheeks,  my  sons  whose  beauty  would  have  charmed 
the  town,  and  the  varying  and  pure  grace  of  my 
daughters. 


^t>' 


So  that  to-day,  instead  of  being  myself,  I  should 
have  been  some  one  else,  and  I  should  have  visited 
the  imposing  house  of  these  past  centuries,  and,  dream- 
ing, I  should  have  let  my  soul  float  before  these  simple 
words :   there  lived  Francis  Jammes. 

MADAME   DE  WARENS 

Page  248.  Madame  de  Warens,  you  watched  the  storm  wrin- 
kling the  gloomy  trees  of  the  melancholy  Charmettes, 
or  else  you  played  shrilly  upon  the  spinet,  0  sensible 
woman  whom  Jean-Jacques  lectured  ! 

It  was  an  evening  like  this,  perhaps  .  .  .  The  sky 
was    blasted    by   black   thunder  ...     A   smell    of 


Appendix  A  423 

branches  cut  before  the  rain  rose  mournfully  from 
the  box  borders  .  .  . 

And  I  saw  again,  pouting,  at  your  knees,  in  his 
little  coat,  the  boy  poet  and  philosopher  .  .  .  But 
what  was  the  matter  with  him  ?  .  .  .  Why,  weeping 
to  the  rose-coloured  sunsets,  did  he  look  at  the  swing- 
ing of  the  magpies'  nests  ? 

Oh !  how  often  he  implored  you,  from  the  bottom 
of  his  soul,  to  put  a  curb  upon  those  exaggerated 
spendings  which  you  indulged  in  with  that  frivolity 
which  is,  alas !  the  characteristic  of  the  majority  of 
women. 

But  you,  witty  as  well  as  gentle  and  tender,  you 
said  to  him  :  "Look  at  him !  the  little  philosopher  ! " 
Or  else  you  pursued  him  with  some  pink  drug  with 
which  you  would  powder  his  wig,  laughing. 

Peaceful  sanctuaries !  Peaceful  years !  Peaceful 
retreats !  Fresh  alder  whistles  blew  among  the 
beeches  .  .  .  Yellow  honeysuckle  framed  the  win- 
dow .  .  .  Sometimes  one  received  the  visit  of  a 
priest  .  .  . 

Madame  de  Warens,  you  had  a  fancy  for  this  boy 
with  the  slightly  mischievous  face,  lacking  in  repartee, 
but  not  at  all  stupid,  and  above  all,  clever  at  copying 
music  according  to  the  rules. 


424  Six  French  Poets 

Ah  !  how  you  should  have  wept,  inconstant  woman, 
when,  abandoning  him,  he  was  obliged  to  go  back, 
alone,  with  his  poor  little  bundle  on  his  shoulders, 
through  the  fir-trees  of  the  waterfalls. 

Page  250.  I  want  no  other  joy,  when  Summer  returns,  than 
that  of  the  past  year.  I  will  sit  down  under  the  sleep- 
ing grape  vines.  In  the  depth  of  the  woods  there  is  a 
singing  of  fresh  water,  and  there  I  shall  hear,  I  shall 
feel,  I  shall  see,  everything  which  the  forest  hears, 
feels,  and  sees. 

I  want  no  other  joy  when  Autumn  returns,  than  that 
of  yellow  leaves  scraping  the  hillsides  where  it  thun- 
ders, than  the  rumbling  sound  of  new  wine  in  the  casks, 
than  heavy  skies,  than  cows  jangling  their  bells,  than 
beggars  asking  an  alms. 

I  want  no  other  joy  when  Winter  returns,  than  that 
of  iron  skies,  than  the  smoke-wreaths  of  cranes  grating 
in  the  air,  than  firebrands  singing  like  the  sea,  and 
than  the  lamp  behind  the  green  squares  of  window- 
glass  in  the  shop  where  the  bread  is  bitter. 

When  Spring  returns,  I  want  no  other  joy  than 
that  of  the  piercing  wind,  than  the  flowering  of  leaf- 
less peach-trees,  than  muddy  and  green  paths,  than 
the  violet,  and  the  bird,  singing  like  a  storm-swollen 
brook  gorging  itself. 


Appendix  A  425 

Page  252.  Like  a  smokmg  and  woolly  flock,  the  sky  travelled 
under  the  rainy  wind.  The  rain  glistened  on  the 
blue  slates.  Near  the  gate  an  ox-cart  squeaked.  A 
cock  pecked  a  cock.    And  on  the  old  wooden  bench, 

Jean  de  Xoarrieu  yawned. 

One  heard  the  ser\-aiit  rrio\-ing  about.  Tre  hearth. 
dim  and  red,  blazed  up  brighter  under  the  ■«;hining 
kettle .  Near  the  black  chest,  greasy  with  age,  it  lit  up 
the  smooth-beUied  gourd,  and  the  sheep-dog  stretched 
himself,  yawning. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck.  The  fat  ir.  the  saucepan 
spurted  up.  And  Lude  carefully  Irrike  two  hen's 
^gs,  with  brown  shells.  :i,  r.f:  the  tall  andiron,  and 
one  saw,  puffing  up  beshlr  :he  white  £at..  the  eggs 
which  guttered  ar.i  le:.t:  a:  :ut. 

Page  2S2.  On  the  dresser  are  beautiful  plates  uoon  -rvhich  are 
painted  birds  ornamented  with  aigrettes  y  .  ^  fruits 
and  violet  flowers.  The  silver  in  the  ~  ;  r  :^ket 
jingles  brightly  as  Lude  touches  it.  She  .han^ei  the 
plate  and  smiles  at  her  master. 

Page  2S3.  And  blossoming  Easter  came.  Halleluia !  Oh ! 
sweet  festival !  Harmoniums  grumbled  in  the  hearts 
of  the  churches.    HaQeltiia .'    Gilded  was  the  ereen 


426  Six  French  Poets 

of  the  shining  meadows.     Crickets  chirped.      Halle- 
luia  !     Lilacs  glistened  in  the  blue  night. 

On  a  blessed  and  soft  evening,  Halleluia  !  —  of  a 
sudden  one  heard  the  lilacs  slowly  questioning  the 
stars.  It  was,  it  was,  it  was,  Halleluia !  the  nightin- 
gale, the  moon  streamed,  the  nightingale  in  flowers. 
Halleluia ! 

Be  bom  again,  Nature.  Oh  !  See  the  wild  cherry- 
tree  all  white  in  the  garden.  Halleluia !  The  heart 
bursts  open  .  .  . 


Page  253.  They  cross  the  frail  bridge  over  the  torrent  of  a 
little,  old,  whirling  mill,  all  compounded  of  moss  and 
silver  laughter ;  a  torrent  as  pretty  as  though  it  were 
in"  a  novel,  full  of  water-cress  and  quivering  sunlight 
and  pebbles  rolling  over  pebbles. 

It  leaps  back.  They  see  and  they  hear  the  sparkling 
shiver  with  which  the  running  water  twinkles.  The 
wheel,  covered  with  transparent  moss,  streams  and 
glitters,  as  in  the  Spring  some  emerald  and  silver  val- 
ley glitters  in  a  blue  cleft  of  the  laughing  Bigorres. 

Page  254.  It  was  the  July  dog-days :  the  tops  of  the  ears  of  the 
Indian  corn  were  silver,  and  their  stamens  were  drying 
up.  The  circular  sweep  of  the  scythe,  with  its  rake 
attached,  with  which  one  levels  the  com,  sounded  in 
the  quivering  sunshine. 


Appendix  A  427 

The  scythe,  which  makes  a  sharp  wailing  noise, 
shaved  the  com  and  the  white  bindweed,  the  purple 
loosestrife  and  the  winged  thistle.  In  the  fields,  the 
heat  made  the  hollow,  sharp,  round,  and  breaking 
straw  crackle.     And  exploded  the  grating  cicada. 

Its  cry  took  fire,  suddenly,  like  powder,  going  on 
from  tree  to  tree,  and  at  the  hour  of  the  siesta  when 
nothing  is  moving,  the  whole  blue  plain,  curved  about 
the  reddish-brown  corn,  made  the  whistling  that  a 
child  makes  through  his  teeth  to  excite  a  dog  on  the 
road. 

Except  for  this  excruciating  sovmd,  ever3rthing  was 
still. 

Page  255.  Outside,  the  night  cups  the  clear  moon.  The  trees 
have  a  denser  shade,  a  shade  so  dense  that  one  would 
say  that  they  had  the  shadow  of  the  day  in  them,  and 
that  this  shadow  had  retired  into  them  to  sleep  until 
morning. 

What  silence  of  love,  only  interrupted  by  the  chirp- 
ing of  a  toad  under  one  of  the  stone  steps  !  .  .  .  The 
moon  is  rising  through  the  catalpa  tree.  One  can 
distinguish  its  continents,  eaten  into  by  light,  where 
dreams  are  sleeping. 

The  garden  prays.  One  feels  the  hearts  of  the 
peaches  beating  in  the  silence  of  God.     They  are 


428  Six  French  Poets 

downed  like  the  lustre  of  the  shining  cheeks  of  those 
dancers,  who,  in  Laruns,  display  themselves  like 
flowers  in  slow,  lazy  dances. 

The  fruits  weigh  more  at  night.  Night  seems  to 
lean  on  the  fruits.  They  bend  to  each  other  like  Jean 
and  Lucie.  One  loves,  trembling.  Kisses  end  more 
slowly,  like  those  round  wrinkles  which  the  wind 
starts  and  stills  on  the  water. 

One  by  one,  the  stars  rise.  And  Jean  sees  them 
sparkle,  white,  yellow,  and  pure,  in  the  centre  of  the 
dark  windows.  To  the  Southward,  swollen  storm 
clouds  creep  slowly  along,  sometimes  passing  over  the 
moon,  then  leaving  her  bare. 

Page  257.  How  exactly  parallel  all  the  shops  are !  All  little 
towns  are  alike.  Right :  Grocery.  Left :  Dye  Shop. 
Right:  PoUce  Station.  Left:  Apothecary  Shop. 
Right:  Inn.  Left:  Leather  Worker's.  Right: 
Lawyer.  Left :  Doctor.  Then  ten  or  twelve  middle- 
class  houses,  with  gardens  full  of  blue  foliage  and 
hollyhocks  and  the  shining  and  rose-coloured  heat 
of  light.  Over  there?  That  is  the  Town  Hall  and 
its  lightning-rod,  and  the  four-cornered  square,  with 
elms  and  chains  .  .  . 

Page  257.  How  beautiful  the  night  is  over  the  little  town ! 
Elevenbluehours !  Againsttheshadowof  themoonlight, 
the  tulip-tree  of  this  garden  is  even  softer  than  the  line 
of  silver-blue  hills  in  the  distance.     Bright  moonlight ! 


Appendix  A  429 

It  is  so  beautiful  and  bright,  one  wonders  why  one  does 
not  live  at  night,  like  the  hares.  No  one  in  the  street. 
A  cricket  chirps.  A  cat  coughs,  probably  he  has  the 
croup.  I  should  like  not  to  go  to  bed,  to  stretch  out 
in  a  field,  and  swim  in  this  blue  light. 

Page  261.  The  peace  of  the  fields  extends  all  about  the  chapel. 
And  at  the  dusty  crossroads,  in  the  midst  of  oats, 
mint,  chicory  and  agrimony,  stands  a  great  Christ 
of  hollow  wood,  in  which  the  bees  have  made  their 
nest.  And  one  can  see  these  busy  creatures,  full  of 
honey,  go  and  come  like  black  letters  written  upon 
the  slcy. 

With  what  shall  one  nourish  one's  God  if  not  with 
honey  ?  Sometimes  the  road-mender,  breaking  stones, 
raises  his  head  and  sees  the  Christ,  the  only  friend  he 
has  on  this  road  where  midday  throbs.  To  break 
the  stones,  the  workman  kneels  in  the  shadow  of  this 
Christ  whose  flank  is  crimson.  And  then  all  the 
honey  sings  in  the  sunshine. 

The  poet  looks  and  meditates.  He  tells  himself, 
before  the  slow  quivering  of  the  fields,  that  each  blade 
is  one  of  the  wise  colony  of  God's  people,  each  grain 
of  which,  to  be  vivified,  waits  for  water  to  be  sent 
forth  from  the  grottoes  of  Heaven.  He  tells  himself 
that  henceforward  this  grain  will  grow  in  the  precious 
azure  which  everything  deepens,  and  that  in  the 
image  of  the  Son  of  God,  he  too  born  in  a  grotto,  it  will 
nourish  those  who  are  hungry.  And  the  ear,  which 
in  its  turn  will  be  bom  of  this  grain,  will  be  shaped 
like  a  belfry  at  dawn. 


430  Six  French  Poets 

THE   CHILD   READS  THE  ALMANAC  .  .  . 

Page  262.  The  child  is  reading  the  aknanac,  close  to  her  basket 
of  eggs.  And  apart  from  the  Saints,  and  the  weather 
it  will  be,  she  can  contemplate  the  beautiful  signs  of 
the  heavens:  The  Goat,  The  Bull,  The  Ram,  The 
Fishes,  et  csetera. 

Thus  this  little  peasant  girl  can  believe  that,  above 
her  in  the  constellations,  there  are  the  same  markets, 
with  donkeys,  bulls,  rams,  goats,  and  fishes. 

It  is  the  market  of  Heaven  about  which  she  is  read- 
ing, no  doubt.  And  when  the  page  turns  at  the  sign 
of  The  Scales,  she  says  to  herself  that  in  Heaven,  as 
in  the  grocer's  shop,  they  weigh  coffee,  salt,  and  con- 
sciences. 

Page  262.       .  .  .  rang  gaily 

For  a  farmer's  daughter  was  being  married. 

Denis 

Page  263.  How  light  the  wind  is!  It  lifts  up  the  vine  .  .  . 
Stay  so,  my  Dear,  in  this  soft  wakefulness  ...  I 
looked  at  your  arms  a  Httle  while  ago,  when  you  were 
haymaking  .  .  .  They  know,  innocently,  how  to 
fold  themselves  to  your  heart.  What  emotion  is  it 
which,  when  I  touch  your  eyes,  prevents  me  from 
thinking  of  anything  but  them?  What  sentiment 
is  it  which,  if  I  hear  you  singing,  makes  me  feel 


Appendix  A  431 

that  it  is  my  voice  which  you  have  borrowed  ?  When 
your  heart  rests  upon  mine,  what  is  it  which  makes 
me  confuse  us  in  the  same  sweetness  ? 

Lucie 

What  lovely  words  you  know  how  to  say  to  me ! 
Alas !  I  do  not  know  how  to  answer  in  poetry,  but 
I  love  you  just  the  same.  If  I  do  not  know  how  to  re- 
turn your  love  in  charming  verses,  be  very  sure  that 
I  know  how  to  take  all  the  emotion  which  you  want 
to  give  me,  and  that  I  am  yours  with  simplicity. 
Blessed  be  work  if  it  forces  my  arms  to  take  the  curves 
which  you  desire,  and  which  will  enfold  you  .  .  . 
Poetry  is  the  soul  of  life.  I  cultivate  it,  and  you  make 
it  flower.  Denis,  I  am  nothing  but  the  poor  servant 
who  listens  to  the  wise  word  with  faith. 


TO  MARY  OF  NAZARETH,  MOTHER  OF  GOD 

Page  264.  In  dedicating  this  work  to  You,  to  You  also  I  dedi- 
cate my  daughter  Bemadette,  whose  patron  saint 
saw  You  in  my  native  country,  which  is  the  mountain- 
ous Bigorre. 

The  old  botanists  also  dedicated  their  herbals  to 
You,  and  they  painted  You  on  the  first  page,  standing, 
Your  son  in  Your  arms,  all  surrovmded  by  lilacs,  blue 
rays,  roses,  gloxinias,  weigelias,  peonies,  guelder-roses, 
lilies,  and  the  thousand  flowers  which  will  come  no 
more,  because  they  are  no  longer  gathered  for  You 
by  robust  visionaries,  who  got  up  in  the  morning 
with  the  forget-me-nots,  and  went  to  sleep  with  the 
closing  of  the  nasturtiums. 


432  Six  French  Poets 

You  are  the  Mother  of  all  men  and  of  God.  You 
were  born  in  Nazareth  as  simply  as  my  Bernadette 
in  Orthez.  They  have  told  the  truth.  They  have 
not  invented  an  extraordinary  origin  for  You.  I 
hold  You  in  my  heart  as  a  certainty.  Possibly  I  am 
unintelligent,  but  the  incense  of  all  created  flowers 
rises  from  the  earth  for  You,  and  You  change  it  into 
love,  like  this  climbing  rose  which  flings  itself  toward 
the  top  of  the  cedars. 

You  see  that  I  do  not  know  any  more  what  I  am 
writing,  but  my  thoughts  cling  to  You  after  the 
manner  of  this  flowering  vine,  and  I  dedicate  this 
poor  work  to  You  as  a  servant  might  her  pot  of 
mignonette,  and  it  trembles  in  my  uplifted  hands. 

Page  266.  In  this  way  the  verses  of  which  I  make  use  are 
thoroughly  classic,  simply  and  solely  freed  by  common 
sense. 

After  a  great  battle  in  which  I  took  part,  I  look  and 
realize  that  we  are  only  slightly  divided. 

Becomes  too  sonorous  and  too  easy  and  slack,  the 
pure  alexandrine,  formerly  so  beautiful,  is  just  repe- 
tition. 

Vers  libre  does  not  give  a  clear  enough  sense  of  where 
the  stanza  begins  and  ends. 

But  wanting  all  liberties,  it  has  at  least  gained 
some.     They  open  the  way. 


Appendix  A  433 


Few  as  they  are,  they  are  quite  enough.  Lines 
shall  be  equal  and  not  assonanced. 

As  the  male  bird  in  turn  answers  the  female,  the 
male  rhyme  follows  a  female  rhyme. 

Although  lines  be  thus  bound  together,  I  accept 
the  rhyming  of  plurals  with  singulars. 

Again  like  the  bird,  who  takes  his  rhythm  from 
heaven,  here  and  there  the  rhyme  may  pause  at  the 
caesura. 

Sometimes  the  hiatus  comes  just  in  time  to  recall 
him  who  is  a  poet  to  the  simplest  speech. 

Now  that  the  mute  e  is  slipping  out  of  speech,  I  do 
not  wish  it  to  count  in  my  verse  any  more. 

The  syllables  to  be  counted  are  only  those  which 
the  reader  habitually  pronounces. 

Having  established  this  brief  but  definite  Art  of 
Poetry,  my  inspiration  once  more  opens  its  door. 

Page  26^.  The  wind  streamed  over  the  blue  silk  of  the  grain 
and  wrinkled  it,  and  the  rattle  of  the  crickets  trembled 
like  the  bell  of  a  little  railroad  station.  The  line  of 
the  horizon  slept,  stretched  over  the  ears  of  wheat, 

27 


434  "S"^^  French  Poets 

and  the  leaves  of  the  stubble  rose  and  fell  like  mast 
pennants  for  grasshoppers.  Sometimes  one  saw  in  the 
sky  a  cloud  like  a  grove  of  shadows  lifted  up  from  the 
hill,  and  while  it  sUd  along,  the  hill  shone,  darkened, 
and  shone  again. 

PAUL  FORT 
THE  GREAT   INTOXICATION 

Page  274.  On  blue  Summer  nights  when  the  cicadas  sing, 
God  spills  a  cup  of  stars  over  France.  The  wind 
brings  a  taste  of  the  Summer  sky  to  my  lips.  I  want 
to  drink  from  this  freshly  silvered  space. 

For  me,  the  evening  air  is  the  edge  of  the  cold  cup 
from  which,  with  half -shut  eyes  and  voracious  mouth, 
I  drink  the  starry  freshness  which  falls  from  the 
clouds,  as  though  it  were  the  squeezed  juice  of  a  pome- 
granate. 

Lying  upon  a  grassplot  where  the  grass  is  still  hot 
from  having  flaunted  itself  in  the  day  air,  oh !  this 
evening,  with  what  love  would  I  empty  the  immense 
blue  cup  in  which  the  firmament  moves ! 

Am  I  Bacchus  or  Pan?  I  am  intoxicated  with 
space,  and  I  quench  my  fever  in  the  freshness  of  nights. 
With  my  mouth  open  to  the  sky  in  which  the  stars 
shiver,  oh !  that  the  sky  would  flow  into  me !  that  I 
might  melt  into  it ! 


Appendix  A  435 

Byron  and  Lamartine,  Hugo,  Shelley,  are  dead, 
intoxicated  with  space  and  the  starry  heavens.  Space 
is  always  there  ;  limitless  it  flows ;  scarcely  drunk,  it 
sweeps  me  along,  and  I  am  still  thirsty. 

THE  SKY  IS  GAY,    'TIS   PLEASANT  MAY 

Page  27 S-  Over  the  hedge  the  sea  is  sparkling,  the  sea  sparkles 
like  a  shell.  One  wants  to  fish  in  it.  The  sky  is  gay, 
'tis  pleasant  May. 

The  sea  over  the  hedge  is  soft,  it  is  soft  like  the  hand 
of  a  child.  One  wants  to  caress  it.  The  sky  is  gay, 
'tis  pleasant  May. 

The  glittering  needles  which  sew  the  sea  to  the 
hedge  move  in  the  quick  hands  of  the  breeze.  The 
sky  is  gay,  'tis  pleasant  May. 

Upon  the  hedge  the  sea  exhibits  its  frivolous  butter- 
flies. Little  vessels  about  to  sail.  The  sky  is  gay, 
'tis  pleasant  May. 

The  hedge  —  it  is  depths,  with  golden  beetles. 
The  breezes  are  more  mischievous.  The  sky  is  gay, 
'tis  pleasant  May. 

As  soft  as  a  tear  upon  a  cheek,  the  sea  is  a  tear  on 
the  hedge  which  softly  descends  to  the  harbour.  But 
one  scarcely  wishes  to  weep. 


436  Six  French  Poets 

"A  boy  has  fallen  into  the  harbour !"  —  "Dead  in 
the  sea,  'tis  a  pleasant  death."  But  one  scarcely 
wishes  to  weep.     The  sky  is  gay,  'tis  pleasant  May ! 

Page  277.       ...     It  came  into  the  world  for  me,  real,  great, 
immense,  and  dreamed  at  the  same  time. 

It  came  into  the  world  for  me,  divined  by  my  eyes, 
on  a  Spring  morning,  to  the  twittering  of  swallows. 
My  little  hands  believed  they  took  it  from  the  blue 
sky!  It  was  faithful  to  me,  being  bom  again  each 
dawn,  all  inhabited  by  Saints,  by  Kings,  and  by  Heroes, 
and  by  Angels  half  in  flight,  like  a  tree  of  birds. 

Great  plaything  of  my  soul,  0  French  forest  of 
stones ;  and  my  immense  rattles,  your  towers ;  you 
remained  the  sole  Pastime  of  my  spirit,  with  the  three 
high  porches  in  a  flaming  triangle,  and  above  them  the 
Rose,  where  one  saw  the  fluttering  of  pigeons  pecking 
at  the  fleeting  reflections. 

Then,  my  Cathedral,  when  I  was  at  last  old  enough 
to  join  a  kite  to  the  wings  of  your  angels,  and  make 
your  walls  ring  with  my  cries,  and  pursuing  my  cries 
with  streaming  hair,  to  surround  your  old  walls  with 
the  hundred  games  of  childhood  .  .  . 

Page  278.       Monstrous  General  Baron  von  Plattenberg,  if  to 
you  I  owe  this  love  song  to  my  Church,  I  give  you  in 


Appendix  A  437 

return,  even  if  it  immortalizes  you,  the  poet's  slap  in 
the  face,  and  the  scaffold  of  the  Word  —  but  I  have  a 
magazine  of  hate  consecrated  to  all  the  Germans 
whom  I  have  chanced  to  meet. 


JOACHIM 

Page  282.  Night  glides  thick  and  cold  through  Paris.  Two 
shadows  in  the  darkness,  two  thin  little  shadows, 
move  chillily,  then  slide  into  the  night. 

"Sweet  Sire,  I  have  sworn.    We  go  to-night." 
"Very  well,  follow  me,  follow  me." 

Little  lanes  in  the  midst  of  little  lanes,  two  thin 
little  shadows  move  in  the  cold,  —  then  stop. 

There,  before  a  half-buried  hovel,  a  voice,  a  little 
bitter-sweet  voice,  tart,  a  little  voice  drenched  with 
sobs : 

"I  am  neither  lion,  nor  wolf,  nor  fox,  I  am  a  man, 
Croy !  Knock  at  this  door,  Croy  !  Here,  —  good. 
Call :   Dame  Simone  des  Chaines !" 

"  Dame  Simone  des  Chaines  !" 

"Good.  Listen,  listen!  .  .  .  Ask  if  some  one 
did  not  die  yesterday  at  her  house." 

"  Dame  Simone,  did  some  one  die  here  yesterday  ?  " 

"Alas,  sweet  Sir!  You  know  it  then?  My  son 
Joachim,  my  son,  last  night." 

"I  am  neither  lion,  nor  wolf,  nor  fox,  I  am  a  man. 
Croy,  come  back,  hold  me  up !  Joachim !  .  .  . 
Croy !     I  am  neither  lion,  nor  wolf,  nor  fox,  I  am  all 


438  Six  French  Poets 

three.  Croy,  I  am  a  man.  Goodbye,  little  crea- 
ture .  .  .  Joachim!  Joachim!  Come  now,  let  us 
go.  Dame  Simone  was  .  .  .  Dame  Simone  was  .  .  . 
I  am  a  man,  Croy,  I  am  weeping  for  a  little  crea- 
ture .  .  .    Joachim!    Alas!  .  .  .  my  little  child  .  .  ." 

Night  glides  thick  and  cold  through  Paris,  two  thin 
little  shadows  push,  slide,  move.  Oh !  what  a  little 
tart  voice,  tart  ...    Oh,  its  little  anguished  cries ! 


THE  MIRACULOUS  CATCH 

Page  283.  The  news  was  so  charming,  —  an  uncle  dead  so  k 
propos!  —  my  sweet  little  Louis  XI  wished  very 
much  to  celebrate  it,  but  intimately,  in  agreeable 
society. 

Master  Tristan,  all  imagination,  counselled  an  out- 
door party,  and,  as  he  winked  with  his  sly  red  eyes :  — 
"Understood,"  said  the  king,  "you  are  nothing  but 

a  rascal." 

The  next  morning,  under  the  blue  heavens,  gay  and 
contented,  my  sweet  little  Louis  XI,  Tristan  I'Ermite, 
and  their  madcap  mistresses,  Simone  des  Chaines 
and  Perrette  de  Tresor,  were  come  to  tease  the  gud- 
geon of  the  Seine,  at  the  reedy  foot  of  the  Tour  de 
Nesle. 

Master  Olivier,  virgin,  kept  watch  on  the  bank, 
crushing  the  grass  with  his  long  strides.  He  stared 
gloomily  into  the  air :  the  fall  of  Buridan  occupied  his 
mind. 


Appendix  A  439 

Simone  des  Chaines,  heart  and  soul  bound  to  the 
heart  and  soul  of  her  dearly-loved  King,  like  a  water- 
lily  bending  over  an  old  nenuphar,  leaned  her  snow- 
white  neck,  her  milk-white  forehead,  and  her  little 
white  velvet  nose,  over  the  shrivelled  shoulder  of  her 
lover;    and,  from  time  to  time,  the  gracious  King 
Louis  of  France  asked  her  for  a  worm.     Then  it  was 
with  such  a  great  charm  that  she  drew  one  out  of  a 
little  green  box ;  it  was  with  such  a  disturbing  charm 
that  she  presented  it,  all  wriggling,  to  the  King,  that 
Louis  could  not  resist  kissing  her  ear  (not  that  of  the 
worm  but  that  of  Simone  des  Chaines),  even  whisper- 
ing lovingly  these   words:    "Sweetheart,  you  shall 
assist  at  the  States  General." 


Master  Olivier,  virgin,  kept  watch  on  the  bank, 
crushing  the  grass  with  his  long  strides.  He  stared 
gloomily  into  the  air:  the  fall  of  Buridan  occupied 
his  mind. 

With  an  inattentive  eye,  as  though  he  were  a  river- 
side flower,  he  watched  a  certain  Master  Villon  run- 
ning through  the  reeds  after  dragonflies,  and  who, 
sometimes,  turned  eyes  full  of  anarchy  toward  those 
bourgeois  fishing  over  there,  with  their  friends.  Mas- 
ter Olivier,  virgin,  was  absent  minded  ...  He 
scarcely  saw  Master  Villon,  in  the  reeds,  taking  off 
his  clothes.  He  scarcely  murmured,  as  one  murmurs 
in  a  dream:  "Really,  this  naked  gentleman  is  not 
unknown  to  me." 


440  Six  French  Poets 

And  Tristan  caught  nothing.  And  the  King  caught 
nothing.  The  worms  spun  out,  spun  out  .  .  .  And 
Francois  Villon,  taking  to  mid-stream,  whispered  to 
the  fishes  as  he  floated :  "  Hurrah  for  liberty !  Don't 
let  yourselves  be  taken." 


"Hush!"  cried  the  King,  "or  I  shall  lose  this 
turbot." 

"A  turbot,  my  Lord,  is  a  sea  fish  ..."  timidly 
risked  the  tender  Simone.  "I  sold  them,  with  my 
mother,  at  the  great  Saint-Honore  Market,  in  the 
time  of  my  virginity."  —  "A  sea  fish?  Hey,  that  is 
certainly  why  I  have  missed  him ! "  replied  the  King, 
not  at  all  disconcerted. 

"Past  days  do  not  return,"  hummed  Perrette,  ad- 
justing her  stockings.  "Yes,  youth  is  only  once," 
struck  up  Tristan,  with  conviction.  Then  the  timid, 
the  tender  Simone  cooed,  to  an  air  then  little  known : 
"It  is  twenty  years  since  I  lost  my  mother  ..." 
Nothing  more  was  needed.  Tristan  burst  into  tears, 
—  while  the  King,  all  the  time  fishing  the  wind, 
sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice :  "No,  my  friends,  no,  I 
do  not  want  to  be  anything !  .  .  . " 

And  Tristan  caught  nothing.  And  the  King 
caught  nothing.  The  worms  spun  out,  spun  out  .  .  . 
And  the  intelligent  gudgeon,  flapping  their  gills, 
applauded.  —  (Undoubtedly,  "applauded"  is  only  a 
metaphor.  But  does  one  really  know  what  goes  on 
in  the  water  ?) 


Appendix  A  441 


At  the  reedy  foot  of  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  the  boon 
companions,  the  King  and  the  hangman,  sang  in 
chorus,  Uke  birds.  And  the  gudgeon  waltzed,  waltzed 
agreeably  round  the  corks. 

Master  Olivier,  virgin,  kept  watch  on  the  bank  .  .  . 

Suddenly  Perrette  burst  out  laughing  in  her  skirt ! 
My  sweet  little  Louis  XI,  throwing  up  his  line  with 
spirit,  had  hooked  a  kingfisher.  —  Tristan  said  :  "A 
forfeit!"  Simone :  "Fish  flying!"  and  Master 
Olivier  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  stride. 

"By  my  soul !  I  beUeve  I've  been  mistaken,"  said 
Frangois  Villon  to  himself  as  he  swam  under  water. 
"To  fish  for  a  bird  instead  of  a  gudgeon  .  .  .  This 
bourgeois  is  not  devoid  of  lyrism." 

And  the  gudgeon  waltzed,  waltzed  agreeably  round 
the  corks. 

THE  GIRL  WHO  DIED   IN  LOVING 
Page  2Q2.       This  girl  is  dead,  is  dead  while  she  loved. 

They  have  laid  her  in  the  earth,  in  the  earth,  at 
break  of  day. 

They  have  laid  her  there  alone,  alone  in  her  fine 
array. 

They  have  laid  her  there  alone,  alone  within  her 
coffin. 


442  Six  French  Poets 

They  have  returned  gaily,  gaily  with  the  light. 

They  have  sung  gaily,  gaily :  "  To  each  his  turn 

This  girl  is  dead,  is  dead  while  she  loved." 

They  have  gone  to  the  fields,  to  the  fields  as  every 
day  .  .  . 

Page  2Q3.  No,  I  must  love,  must  trail  my  pain,  to  weep 
against  the  stone  here,  see,  where  I  inscribed  her  name 
between  a  rock-rose,  and  this  heart-coloured  pink.  I 
am  benumbed  !  —  I  am  going  plant-hunting  by  moon- 
light, seeking  under  the  moss  for  the  herb  which 
restores  youth. 

THE  ROUND 

Page  2g6.  If  all  the  girls  in  the  world  wished  to  take  hands, 
they  could  make  a  circle  all  round  the  sea. 

If  all  the  boys  in  the  world  wished  to  be  sailors, 
they  could  make  a  nice  bridge  over  the  waves  with 
their  ships. 

Then  one  could  make  a  round  all  round  the  world, 
if  all  the  people  in  the  world  wished  to  take  hands. 

THE  WEDDING 

Page  2g6.  Ah,  what  joy,  the  flute  and  the  bagpipe  trouble  our 
hearts  with  their  enchanting  strains.     Here  come  the 


Appendix  A  443 

lads  and  girls,  and  all  the  old  people,  to  the  sound  of 
the  instruments. 


Gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  ribbons  and  white 
starched  caps,  gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  and  this 
pretty  couple  likewise. 

What  pleasure,  when  in  the  decorated  church,  bells 
and  little  bells  call  them,  every  one  —  three  hundred 
little  bells  for  the  eyes  of  the  bride,  a  great  deep  bell 
for  the  heart  of  the  husband. 

Gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  ribbons  and  white 
starched  caps,  gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  and  this 
pretty  couple  likewise. 

The  bell  at  last  holds  our  tongues  silent.  Ah ! 
what  pain  when  it  is  for  us  no  more  .  .  .  Weep 
upon  your  prayerbooks,  old  men.  Who  knows? 
Soon  the  bell  may  be  for  you  ? 

Gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  ribbons  and  white 
starched  caps,  gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  and  this 
pretty  couple  likewise. 

At  last  that  is  all,  and  the  bell  is  silent.  Come 
and  dance  to  the  happiness  of  the  married  couple. 
Hurrah  for  the  lad  and  the  girl  and  the  festival.  Ah  ! 
what  joy  when  it  is  not  for  us. 


444  'S'i;x;  French  Poets 

Gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  ribbons  and  white 
starched  caps,  gai,  gai,  let  us  be  married,  and  this 
pretty  couple  likewise. 

What  pleasure,  the  flute  and  the  bagpipe  make  the 
old  young  again  for  a  moment.  See  the  lads  and  the 
young  girls  dancing.  Ah,  what  joy  to  the  sound  of 
the  instriiments ! 

AND  YOU  YOU  YOU 

Page  2q8.      And  you,  you,  you,  it  is  the  fisherman  dying,  and  you, 
you,  yu,  and  the  whole  sea  on  top  of  him. 

And  you,  you,  you,  it  is  the  shepherdess  weeping, 
and  you,  you,  ya,  love  is  lost  to  her. 

And  you,  you,  you,  it  is  the  sea  there  bleating,  and 
you,  you,  yon,  or  it  is  the  sheep  there  ? 

And  you,  you,  you,  pleasures  are  in  Heaven,  and 
you,  you,  you,  beneath  them  are  the  clouds. 

LIFE 

Page  298.      At  the  first  sound  of  bells:     "It  is  Jesus  in  his 
cradle  ..." 

The  bells  have  redoubled :  "  0  gue,  my  lover ! " 

And  then  all  at  once  it  is  the  passing  bell. 


Appendix  A  445 

THE  WHALES 

Page  2qS.  In  the  days  when  one  still  went  after  whales,  so  far, 
Sailor,  it  made  our  maidens  weep,  on  every  road 
there  was  a  Jesus  on  the  cross,  there  were  Marquises 
covered  with  lace,  there  was  the  Holy  Virgin  and  there 
was  the  King ! 

In  the  days  when  one  still  went  after  whales,  so  far, 
Sailor,  it  made  our  maidens  weep,  there  were  seamen 
who  had  faith,  and  great  Lords  who  spat  upon  it, 
there  was  the  Holy  Virgin  and  there  was  the  King ! 

Ah,  well,  now  everybody  is  contented,  it  is  not  a 
thing  to  say,  Sailor,  but  we  are  contented!  There 
are  no  great  Lords,  nor  Jesus  any  more ;  there  is  the 
republic,  and  there  is  the  president,  and  there  are  no 
more  whales. 

THE  TWO   CLOWNS 
Page  2QQ.       "Synthetic  Clown-Clown,  hip,  hip,  turn!" 

"Six  pirouettes,  blue  white  white  blue  —  behold 
the  Sky !  Six  pirouettes,  blue  green  green  blue  — 
behold  the  Sea !  Six  pirouettes,  green  yellow  yellow 
green  —  behold  the  Desert !  Six  pirouettes,  gold 
yellow  yellow  gold  —  behold  the  Sun !" 

"Bravo,  bravo,  a  little  bravo,  gentlemen.  Ana- 
lytic Clown-Clown,  yours,  turn ! " 


446  Six  French  Poets 

"Very  well.  Gentlemen,  let  us  decompose  our- 
selves, follow  me  carefully :  Violet,  two  pirouettes, 
Indigo,  three  pirouettes.  Blue,  five  pirouettes.  Green, 
two  pirouettes,  Yellow,  three  pirouettes,  Orange,  five 
pirouettes.  Red,  ten  pirouettes.  Total :  thirty  pi- 
rouettes. Attention,  Gentlemen,  keep  your  eyes 
on  the  rainbow  .  .  .  Two,  three,  five,  two,  three, 
five,  ten,  rrrrrrran ! " 

"Stop,  Analj^ic,  stop,  enough!  He  will  burst  .  .  . 
God  .  .  .  Ah!" 

Synthetic  writhed,  then  in  the  sawdust  of  the  ring, 
with  a  profound  finger,  inscribed  this  sombre  epitaph  : 

Here  lies 
Analytic 

this  clown  supposed  to  be  wise 

—  very  mad 

and  dead  of  rage 

at  having  been  unable  to  turn  in  a  tempest. 

SENLIS.    EARLY  MORNING 

Page 301.  I  go  out.  Has  the  town  vanished  this  morning? 
Where  has  it  flown  to?  By  what  wind,  to  what  is- 
land? I  find  it,  but  dare  not  stretch  out  my  hands. 
Senlis  is  as  vaporous  as  muslin.  I,  to  tear  Senlis? 
Take  care.    Where  is  it?    Roofs  and  walls  are  a 


Appendix  A  447 

transparent  network  of  fog.  Notre-Dame  surrenders 
to  the  air  her  throat  of  lace,  her  slender  neck,  her 
deUcate  moon-coloured  breast  where  the  unreal  hour 
strikes  which  only  the  angels  remark,  so  stifled  is 
the  echo  in  the  pillow  of  the  sky  made  of  the  softly 
spread  feathers  of  their  wings  on  which  God  rests 
his  forehead  inclined  toward  Senlis. 


HORIZONS 

Page  302.  In  the  direction  of  Paris,  but  toward  Nemours  the 
white,  a  bullfinch  sang  in  the  branches  this  morning. 

In  the  direction  of  Orleans,  flown  toward  Nemours, 
the  lark  sang  above  the  wheat  at  high  noon. 

In  the  direction  of  Flanders,  in  the  golden  twilight, 
far  from  Nemours  the  magpie  has  hidden  his  treasure. 

In  the  evening,  crying  toward  the  East,  toward 
Germany  and  Russia,  the  flock  of  crows  has  quitted 
this  countryside. 

But  in  my  beautiful  garden,  sheltered  by  Nemours, 
Philomel  has  sung  all  through  the  starry  night. 

Page  303.  "  And  when  he  climbed  up  the  ladder  with  his  people, 
what  did  they  throw  at  them,  tell  me?  Chick- 
ens?" "Notso."  "Radishes?  Butter?"  "You  are 
wrong."  "Lambs?  Oxen?"  "Rather!"  "Straw- 
berries and  cream  ?   Melons  ?   Salsify  ?   Fi !   you  are 


448  Six  French  Poets 

joking!"  "They  threw  melted  iron  in  their  eyes; 
on  their  noses,  under  their  noses,  flaming  torches 
(like  opened  roses,  good  to  inhale) ;  and  all  over 
their  bodies  a  joyous  pell-mell  of  furniture,  paving 
stones,  slates,  cannon-balls,  spit,  gnawed  bones, 
varying  filths,  little  nails,  big  nails,  anvils,  hammers, 
saucepans,  wines,  papboats  of  iron,  plates,  forks, 
stoves,  spoons,  ink,  boiling  grease  and  oil,  how  do 
I  know?  Tombstones,  well-curbs,  partition  walls, 
gutters,  roofs,  belfries,  bells,  little  bells  which  tinkled 
gracefully  on  heads." 

"What  else  did  they  throw  at  them  —  and  no 
Ue?" 

"Ah !  many  objects  very  bruising,  cutting,  sharp- 
ened, whetted,  ball-shaped,  socket-shaped,  granulated, 
homed,  toothed,  beaked,  of  earth,  of  sheet -iron,  of 
freestone,  of  iron,  of  steel,  curved,  bristled,  twisted, 
confused,  everything  that  was  badly  used  up,  moss- 
grown,  rusted,  frayed,  in  thongs,  in  wedges,  hollow, 
sieved,  cross-shaped,  screw-shaped,  hooked,  ringing, 
grating,  whistling  and  snoring,  going  humph,  ouf, 
louf,  pouf,  bring,  sring,  tringle,  balaam,  bottom,  bet- 
ting, batar,  arara,  raraboum,  bul,  bul,  breloc,  relic,  re- 
laps,  mil,  bomb,  marl,  broug,  batacl,  mirobol,  pic, 
poc,  quett,  strict,  pac,  diex,  mec,  pett,  sec,  sic,  soif, 
flic,  fatal,  brie,  broc,  brrrrrr  .  .  .  ,  which  battered  in 
skuUs,  enlarged  noses,  banged  ears,  widened  mouths, 
made  fly  teeth,  fingers,  elbows,  arms,  chins,  cheek- 
bones, and  married  eyes  disdaining  an  omelette  of 
one,  boned  shoulders,  brutalized  chests,  discouraged 
hearts,  thrust  into  bellies,  pried  first  into  one  buttock 
then  another,  pulled  out  false  bowels,  made  wool  of 


Appendix  A  449 

thighs,  biUiard-balls  of  knee-pans,  and  enlarged  feet, 
or  cut  a  man  into  five,  six,  seven,  —  really." 

"Indeed,  and  still,  what  did  they  throw  at  them? 

Corpses,  insults,  mobs  and  arrows?" 

"Better  than  that!  (shiver  with  me) — houses. 
And  it  wanted  only  a  little  more,  and  they  would  have 
thrown  the  whole  town  at  them  over  the  town !  " 


HENRY  III 
I 

Page  505.  The  curtains  of  the  windows  are  closed.  The  furni- 
ture sleeps.  Sometimes  the  royal  bed  gives  a  long 
moan.  It  is  the  wood  which  complains,  it  is  the  soul 
of  the  old  oak.  Listen  .  .  .  Indeed,  it  scarcely 
moans.  Listen.  The  dark  fireplace  comes  to  life 
and  shines.  Three  little  blue  flames  dance  on  the 
hearth,  tossing  great  farewells  to  the  fleur-de-lised 
walls. 

Nothing  more.     Darkness  pursues  the  four  walls. 

All  at  once  a  burst  from  the  hearth  brings  them 
back.  The  bed,  all  shivering,  gives  a  human  wail ; 
and  Philippe  de  Valois  detaches  himself  from  a  wall. 
Quickly  he  opens  a  chest,  plunges  into  it  and  shuts  it. 

Louis  XI,  wary,  slides  hypocritically  along ;   about 

his  black  hood  a  white  mouse  turns,  and  here,  the 

shield  of  Brittany  on  their  sleeves,  devouring  each 

other  with  their  eyes,  are  Louis  XII  and  Charles  VIII. 

They  open  the  chest,  plunge  into  it  and  shut  it. 
2a 


450  Six  French  Poets 

The  little  blackguard,  Frangois  II,  goes  to  the  fire- 
place and  vomits.  The  bed,  heaving  up  its  sheets, 
seems  a  phantom  in  pain.  How  short  reigns  are  in 
the  chamber  of  Kings  !  Did  you  see  the  great  wooden 
coffer  yawn  ? 

Nothing  more.     Darkness  pursues  the  four  walls. 

All  at  once  a  burst  from  the  hearth  brings  them 
back,  and  in  front  of  Henri  II  limps  Frangois  the  first. 
They  dream,  with  bent  heads,  of  Diane  de  Poitiers, 
then  plunge  in  together  and  shut  the  lid. 

It  is  Charles  V  who  raises  it  with  his  sceptre,  and 
the  Wise  King  is  red  with  a  reflection  from  the  faggots. 
He  jumps.  Does  the  purple  hinder  jumping?  He 
rolls  in  his  purple  and  lets  go  the  truncheon.  The 
hand  of  justice  flies  from  lock  to  lock  (eric!  crac!) 
turning  the  keys. 

For  here  is  Jean  le  Bon. 

Round-shouldered,  covered  with  melodious  and 
melancholy  chains,  he  has  a  wicked  smile,  and  the 
blue  eyes  of  Christ.  The  madman  Charles  VI  whips 
him  rhythmically  from  helmet  to  feet  with  the  lilies 
of  France,  and  Charles  VII,  the  drunkard,  gathering 
up  the  petals,  bows  his  face.  But  he  staggers.  He 
has  drunk  too  much.  Three  sepulchral  drops  make 
the  chest  resound. 


Appendix  A  451 

The  Valois  Kings  are  in  an  uproar.  The  bed  trem- 
bles. The  eleven  Valois  Kings  call  another.  There, 
and  in  the  mirrors,  see,  the  coffer  yawns.  Does  Death 
exercise  itself  in  metamorphoses  ?  At  each  yawn  the 
horns  of  Satyrs  lift  the  lid  and  quickly  draw  back. 

Then  great  silence  .  .  . 

At  last,  coming  out  of  the  half -shadow,  a  white  face 
rises  as  the  moon  rises.  And  the  bed  sees  Charles  IX 
with  the  black  eyes  pass.  Houp  !  the  chest  breathes 
him  in,  and  everything  vanishes.  In  the  depths  of  the 
infinite  a  mouse  nibbles. 

II 

The  curtains  of  the  windows  are  closed.  The 
furniture  sleeps.  Sometimes  the  royal  bed  gives  a 
long  moan.  It  is  the  wood  which  complains,  it  is  the 
soul  of  the  old  oak,  or  perhaps,  with  torches,  would 
one  see  a  man  there  ?  And  wait  1  the  dark  fireplace 
comes  to  Hfe  and  shines;  three  Httle  blue  flames 
stretch  out  their  reflections  which  mow  the  harvest 
of  the  fleur-de-hsed  walls.  The  ceiling  lights  up  and 
seems  to  grow  higher;  the  bed,  still  in  shadow,  is 
swallowed  up  under  its  dome. 

The  room,  where  everything  wavers,  is  a  prey  to 
phantoms. 

A  last  glimmer  strikes  out  on  the  chest  the  circle 
which  is  escaping  from  its  half -opened  abyss. 


452  Six  French  Poets 

A  quick  gleam  strikes  out  on  the  sides  of  the  chest 
the  circle  which  turns  upon  its  wood  in  a  tumult. 

The  reflection  of  the  mirrors  isolates  and  makes  jut 
out  the  lascivious,  bounding  circle  of  twelve  great 
Satyrs  surrounding  a  frightened  goat  with  their 
desires,  —  while  in  these  mirrors,  thirty  times  re- 
peated, a  Hercules  of  bronze  whirls  his  mass  about. 

He  has  the  grimacing  smile  of  the  Bearnais.  He, 
truly !    The  very  image ! 

The  darkness  is  hot.    A  cry  is  smouldering  .  .  . 

In  silence,  at  a  gallop,  urged  by  the  silent  tempest  of 
Ages  and  Ages  and  Ages,  in  silence,  to  the  gallop  of 
his  iron  horse,  Charlemagne  traverses  the  room  in  a 
flash.  Henri  de  Guise  follows  him  on  his  tall,  black 
horse,  but  having  gone  the  wrong  way,  loses  himself 
in  a  mirror.  And  afterwards,  here  is  Catherine,  her 
great  and  beautiful  face  —  horrible  to  see ! 

Now  from  his  stupor  Henri  tears  a  cry,  a  cry  such 
as  is  heard  at  night  in  the  depths  of  plains,  that  cry 
of  the  solitudes  which  swells  and  passes  by  and  trails 
away,  discouraging  life  in  the  heart  of  the  traveller ; 
and  it  is  at  this  moment  that  at  the  window  which  is 
shining  to  the  West,  the  iron  of  a  halberd,  caught  in 
the  fluttering  stuff,  lifts  up  an  easy  curtain. 

Outside  the  day  is  dying,  rose-coloured,  with  snow. 


Appendix  A  453 

III 

The  King,  dressed  in  black,  has  leaped  out  of  bed ; 
he  goes  to  the  mirrors  to  question  his  face,  shrinks 
before  his  pallor,  and,  all  trembling,  puts  on  his  hat. 
Then  his  black  hat  isolates  his  pallor.  "Will  you 
come  to  arouse  a  stupefied  blood"  (says  he),  "O 
Liquor!  .  .  ."  The  cup  falls  at  his  feet.  Softly 
opening  the  door,  he  listens  to  the  antechamber,  all 
lit  with  swords  and  full  of  clashings. 

Gloves.     Ebony  cane.    And  he  is  gone. 

"The  King,  Gentlemen.  The  King!"  A  halberd 
resounds.  Voices,  whisperings,  noises  of  chairs.  The 
twilight  glimmer  sparklingly  underlines  the  gilded 
beams.  The  antechamber  is  confused,  full  of  the 
shadows  of  vassals  bending  toward  a  passage  where 
a  white  point  is  advancing. 

Behind,  the  royal  bed  is  crouched  under  its  dome, 
quite  at  the  end  of  a  passage  where  a  white  point  is 
advancing. 

"  The  King ! "    Second  echo.  —  A  halberd  resounds. 

What  oval  whiteness,  at  the  height  of 'a  face,  agi- 
tates two  long  pearls  such  as  the  moon  might  have 
wept?  Face  and  long  pearls,  Henri  III  appears. 
And  the  subject  shadows,  all  the  shadows,  bow  down. 

Has  a  flight  of  dead  leaves  fallen  here  ? 


454  •^'^^  French  Poets 


"You  who  risk  an  eye,  look  :  does  the  twilight  still 
underline  the  gilded  beams  ?  " 

"Yes,  but  the  King?" 

"The  King,  my  son?  ...     He  has  gone  by." 

"Quelus,  my  good  friend,  that  smacks  of  prodigy." 

"Maugiron,  Saint-Megrin,  listen  to  the  marvel :  this 
evening  the  Ghost  of  the  King  wanders  about  the 
palace,  masked  with  moonlight  and  two  tears  in  its 
ears." 

"  Is  it  going  to  find  Catherine  again  in  her  clouds  ? 
It  is  going  up  the  staircase." 

"It  is  at  the  second  story  !" 

A  halberd  resounds.  Voices,  whisperings,  noises  of 
chairs.   Outside  the  day  dies,  rose-coloured,  with  snow. 

IV 

While  the  King  hurries  up  the  empty  staircase, 
Chicot  happens  in,  swinging  his  lighted  lantern ! 
They  surround  the  Fool,  who  chuckles,  and  slips 
away,  and  reappears,  lifting  up  his  lantern  and  swing- 
ing it  like  a  censer  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase. 

"Go  on,  Gentlemen,  I  am  searching  for  a  King," 
says  he. 

The  antechamber  is  dark  with  great  whitish  corners, 
where  already  torches  are  springing  into  flame  under 
many  hands.  One  of  them  throws  out  a  flame  of 
snow  and  carmine.     Quickly  the  hands  spread  out.  — 


Appendix  A  455 

One  sees  the  whole  room.  —  Agile,  at  the  ends  of  arms, 
swords  take  fire,  and  joining  themselves  by  twos, 
people  the  air  with  sparks;  some  blades  hum, 
others  are  all  clashings,  and  the  shadows  of  bodies 
make  the  walls  move,  and  the  feet  of  Mignons  rustle 
on  the  flagstones. 

"Chicot,"  Quelus  cries  out,  "the  Ghost  of  the  King 
wanders.  What  are  you  doing  there,  Chicot?  Do 
you  want  to  wander  ?  Armed  with  your  candle,  you 
will  see  it  go  up." 

"No,  I  see  it  come  down." 

"Who  then?" 

"Henri  de  Guise." 

"The  Devil!  He  is  in  Spain  .  .  .  (Yours, 
Monsieur,  touched !) " 

"Pardon,  my  dear  Sir,  he  is  coming  down  the  stair- 


case." 


"Chicot,     take    care     of    yourself!  ..."     "It's 
damned  true.  Gentlemen,  /  saw  him." 
The  swords  drop  back  on  the  flagstones. 

Meanwhile  the  King  hurries  up  the  empty  staircase, 
alone,  to  his  mother  Catherine's  apartments  in  the 
clouds,  and  does  not  feel,  sliding  by,  the  limpid  cuirass 
of  Monseigneur  de  Guise,  who  draws  back  on  the  land- 
ing. The  Duke  is  very  much  in  the  flesh,  however. 
His  heart  beats  strongly.  But  not  enough  to  make  the 
cold  metal  which  Monseigneur  hides  with  his  hat  jingle 
as  he  bows. 


456  Six  French  Poets 

At  the  very  bottom,  the  staircase  blazes.  The 
Duke  comes  down.  He  comes  down  step  by  step 
Uke  a  discreet  phantom.  They  crowd  about,  they 
see  him.  The  Duke  is  returning  from  Spain  like  a 
discreet  phantom,  and  he  even  returns  by  the  bed- 
chamber of  the  Queen ! 

"Unbelievable,"  says  Maugiron. 

"This  Guise  is  a  great  fellow,"  says  Saint-M^grin. 

"Way  for  my  Lord  the  Duke !  " 

The  limpid  cuirass  draws  away  the  swords.  Every- 
thing slips  away.     Ever)rthing  is  extinguished. 


Meanwhile  Henri  HI,  half-lying  on  the  railing 
at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  has  seen  everything  this 
time.  In  his  throat  is  a  sob  like  a  dove's,  then  he 
stands  up. 

A  wall  opens  slightly  for  the  King. 

VI 
Here,  nothing  but  a  lamp  lighting  up  a  hand. 

Everything  —  except  this  lamp  and  save  the  parch- 
ment, where  this  hand,  plump,  old,  starched,  guides 
the  goose-quill  or  seeks  the  ink-stand,  —  everjrthing 
here  is  in  shadow.     The  hand,  by  chance  withdrawing 


Appendix  A  457 

a  little,  leaves  the  writing.  Then  this  is  what  the 
flame,  which  writhes  above  the  characters  like  a  mar- 
tyr, might  read : 

"  To  Madame  my  daughter,  the  Catholic  Queen, 

'^  My  beloved  daughter,  my  dearest,  my  docile  Isabel, 
I  have  just  received  news  of  you  from  Spain.  Monsieur 
de  Guise  brought  it  to  me.  Indeed,  it  would  be  beautiful 
to  see  all  the  wicked  heretics  burning  in  a  single  torch 
(in  France  also,  as  you  do  there).  Alas,  Darling, 
nothing  can  be  done  here.  With  us  there  is  only  perver- 
sion, and  suffering  for  your  good  mother.  You  know 
the  afflictions  which  it  pleases  Heaven  to  send  me,  and 
which  are  the  greatest  ever  sent  to  any  one.  To  burn 
heretics !  Ah!  yes,  beautiful  bouquet  of  flames,  indeed ! 
A  great  bonfire,  and  one  which  would  be  acceptable  to 
God.  But  what  of  that,  little  daughter,  in  France  nothing 
can  be  done.  Everything  here  remains  in  shadow,  even 
the  Royal  Shadow  .  .  ." 

A  white  lip  hangs  from  the  shadow  of  a  face.  Under 
a  bonnet  of  black  tulle,  a  forehead  bends  over,  scored 
with  moving  wrinkles  like  a  belfry  of  birds,  and  the 
more  this  forehead  bends  over  the  higher  it  appears. 
Catherine's  wet  eyes  grow  silver.  The  stern  and 
delicate  curve  of  the  long  Italian  nose  which  the 
fold  of  the  nostril  pulls  back  like  a  bow,  is  in  profile. 

It  is  the  moment  when  Catherine,  pouting  and 
pacific,  crosses  out  the  impoUtic  phrase  with  a  stroke 
of  her  pen. 


458  Six  French  Poets 

Now  another  face  has  risen  up  in  the  room.  Be- 
hind her,  Catherine  feels  the  presence  of  a  pallor. 
She  has  ceased  to  write,  listening  to  her  heart.  Two 
little  gloved  hands  fall  on  her  shoulders,  like  two  bats 
killed  by  the  same  blow  of  a  stick.  And  one  of  the 
little  hands  circling  down  to  her  heart,  clenches 
itself  there  .  .  . 

Then,  with  the  end  of  her  goose-quill,  Catherine 
pensively,  gently,  caresses  it.  And  both  dream,  and 
the  moment  is  full  of  indolence. 

The  hand  relaxes,  trembling  ...  By  one  finger !  — 
see  the  parchment  designated  by  one  finger ! 
^^ Everything  here  remains  in  shadow,  even  the  Royal 
Shadow." 

Two  hands  seize  Catherine's  neck,  and  the  Queen, 
lifting  up  her  terrible  forehead,  cries:  "My  King!" 
A  quick  squeak  of  the  wood  floor  reveals  a  sudden 
flight,  and  soon  Henri  III  descends  the  empty  stair- 
case., 

VII 

He  crosses  the  dark  and  deserted  antechamber, 
throws  himself  against  a  wall  with  both  arms  spread 
out,  and  searches  for  the  passage  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  empty  wall. 

Nothing  more :  emptiness. 


Appendix  A  459 

The  King  totters ;  he  hurries,  totters ;  he  hurries  to 
his  open  door  and  starts  to  go  in,  but  stops,  his  hand 
at  his  throat  and  livid,  before  a  sleepy  and  swaying 
halberd. 

Henri  seizes  the  leg  of  the  guard  whom  he  wakes, 
for  —  O  Stupor  !  —  behind  the  guard  whom  he  wakes, 
there  !  in  his  bed  !  .  .  .  some  one,  some  one  or  some- 
thing, like  himself  (and  perhaps  himself),  black  and 
white,  a  man,  a  King  or  something,  a  King  perhaps  ? 
Charles  IX  or  Frangois?  A  prone  phantom  sleeps 
the  sleep  of  the  dead. 

"Guard!  Come,  you !  Who  is  in  the  rooms  of  the 
King  of  France  ?  To  whom  does  that  pallor  belong  ? 
Those  are  my  clothes.  Let  me  see,  did  I  go  out,  or 
is  it  I,  there?  What  is  that  thing?"  "Alas  !"  said 
the  man  in  alarm,  "alas!  my  dear  Sire,  but  I  .  .  . 
I  do  not  know." 

"Silence,"  said  a  voice.  Avoicesaid:  "Silence  .  .  ." 
The  King  shakes,  aU  crouched  down  like  a  frog 
in  the  cold,  and  the  halberd  falls  and  the  guard 
escapes. 

"It  is  nothing,  my  sweet  Sire,  it  is  Chicot,  resting." 

And  Chicot  decamps  dragging  a  sheet  after  him. 


460  Six  French  Poets 

VIII 
Midnight? 

Midnight  chimes  from  Saint-Germain-rAuxerrois, 

PAN   AND  THE   CHERRIES 

(A  Shepherd's  Vision) 

Page  317.  lo  I  I  recognized  Pan  by  his  unconstrained  attire, 
and  his  shaggy  hair !  He  leapt  in  the  sunshine,  some- 
times with  an  easy  gesture  picking  a  cherry  from  the 
crimson  trees.  How  unpolluted  he  was !  Drops  of 
water  trickled  over  his  glossy  fleece  like  stars :  one 
would  have  said  it  was  of  silver. 

And  it  was  under  the  blue  sky  of  my  young  Spring- 
time. 

Presently,  having  caught  sight  of  a  bigger,  more 
beautiful  cherry  in  the  air,  he  seized  it,  and  squeezed 
the  stone  from  the  bleeding  pulp.  I  approached.  I 
was  overjoyed  .  .  .  He  having  aimed  at  my  eye, 
I  received  the  stone.  I  started  to  kill  Pan  with  my 
knife.  He  stretched  out  an  arm,  made  a  sudden  side- 
leap,  and  the  whole  World  turned  rovmd. 

Come  and  worship  Pan,  the  god  of  the  World! 


Appendix  A  461 

THE  KISSES 

Page  jiy.  When  we  went  away  from  each  other,  we  didn't  say 
anything.  And  we  thought  we  didn't  love  each 
other  much.  When  we  went  away  from  each  other, 
we  didn't  say  anything  for  a  long  time.  It  was, 
as  they  say,  like  indifference. 

We  kissed  each  other  well,  however,  yesterday  and 
before,  you  said  to  me  :  "Five  days."  But  we  said  to 
each  other :  "That  doesn't  last  long,  five  days  of  kisses, 
it  is  like  fair  weather." 

To-day  blue  sea  and  to-morrow  it  is  a  storm.  You 
mustn't  ask  too  much  of  love.  And  besides,  sailors, 
do  you  see,  it  goes.  A  boat  kisses  the  sand  .  .  . 
How  short  kisses  are ! 

FIRST  APPOINTMENT 
(Square  Monge) 

Page  318.  Intoxication  of  Spring !  and  the  greensward  turns 
round  the  statue  of  Voltaire.  —  Ah  !  really,  it  is  a 
beautiful  green,  it  is  very  pretty,  the  Square  Monge : 
green  grass,  railing  and  benches  green,  green  police- 
man, it  is,  when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  a  beautiful 
comer  of  the  Universe.  —  Intoxication  of  Spring ! 
and  the  greensward  turns  round  the  statue  of  Vol- 
taire. 

The  pale  trees  where  the  sky  opens  its  blue  flowers 
are  full  of  birds.    The  pigeons  make  love  tenderly. 


462  Six  French  Poets 

The  sparrows  wag  their  tails.  I  am  waiting  .  .  . 
Oh  !  I  am  happy,  in  the  dehciousness  of  waiting.  I 
am  gay,  mad,  in  love  —  and  the  pale  trees  where  tlie 
sky  opens  its  blue  flowers  are  full  of  birds. 

I  climb  up  on  the  benches  the  colour  of  hope,  or  else 
I  balance  ...  on  the  hoops  of  the  flower  bed,  before 
the  statue  of  Voltaire.  Hurrah  for  everything! 
Hurrah  for  myself!  Hurrah  for  France!  There  is 
nothing  I  do  not  hope.  I  have  the  wings  of  hope.  I 
clunb  up  on  the  benches  to  leave  the  earth,  or  else 
I  do  a  little  balancing. 

She  said  :  one  o'clock ;  it  is  only  noon !  Time  is 
short  to  lovers.  The  birds  sing,  the  sunshine  dreams. 
Every  time  that  Adam  meets  Eve  they  must  have  a 
paradise.  Behind  the  railing,  in  the  sun,  the  torpid 
omnibus  thinks  of  it.  She  said :  one  o'clock ;  it  is 
only  noon !    Time  is  short  to  lovers. 

Before  the  statue,  a  white  cat,  a  yellow  one  —  and 
the  yellow  one  is  a  female !  —  roll,  tumble  upon  the 
hot  grass,  show  their  paws,  miau,  fight  together. 
The  sun  gently  widens  your  smile,  O  my  gentle  Vol- 
taire. O  good  faun.  —  Before  your  statue,  a  white 
cat,  a  yellow  one,  roll,  tumble,  show  their  paws. 

The  trees  put  out  leaves  to  the  song  of  the  birds. 
My  heart's  bud  bursts  open  !  And  I  shake  for  nothing 
but  having  seen  the  diamonds  of  the  watering-pot 
cover  the  grass  with  mist.    A  rainbow  springs  from 


Appendix  A  4^3 

the  spine  of  the  philosopher  and  goes  quivering  into 
the  branches  of  a  horse-chestnut  tree.  The  trees  put 
out  leaves  to  the  song  of  the  birds.  My  heart's  bud 
bursts  open ! 

The  azure  is  on  fire :  under  the  bench  where  the 
policeman  is  sleeping,  a  dog  scents  a  dog.  A  little 
girl  skips  rope  over  her  shadow,  and  others,  and 
others.  I  see  their  shadows  on  the  walk  grow  bigger 
or  shrink.  And  all  these  things  sing,  one  better  than 
another  :  "  Little  fire  !  Big  fire  !  so  that  it  lights  the 
good  God  !"  The  azure  is  on  fire  :  under  the  bench 
where  the  policeman  is  sleeping,  a  dog  scents  a  dog. 

Here  is  the  musical  cocoa-vender,  loaded  with  his 
golden  taps.  His  taps  are  serpents  from  which  his 
tinkling  cocoa  spurts  into  the  cups  of  the  children. 
Cool  our  lust:  quick!  for  a  sou  of  your  mixture, 
glittering  Laocoon.  I  drink  to  all  Nature,  I  drink 
to  your  boiling  bronze,  you  who  smile  at  adventures, 
•  0  old  Voltaire,  O  gentle,  wicked  man.  —  Here  is  the 
vender  of  musical  cocoa.     His  taps  are  serpents. 

Ah,  Spring,  what  fire  rises  from  the  earth!  what 
fire  falls  from  the  sky,  Spring.  —  Before  the  statue  of 
Voltaire,  I  am  waiting  for  my  new  Manon.  And  while 
she  delays,  Voltaire,  seated,  is  patient:  I  look  at 
what  he  is  looking  at,  an  Easter  daisy  in  the  grass. 
I  am  waiting.  —  I  am  waiting,  0  Sky  !  I  am  waiting, 
O  Earth  !  under  all  the  flames  of  Spring ! 


464  Six  French  Poets 

Two  o'clock.  Let  us  pull  this  daisy  to  pieces.  "A 
little,  very  much,  passionately  .  .  ."  Passionately, 
little  Manon,  come  quickly,  run,  I  implore  you.  Hey  ! 
you  —  you  smile  in  a  way  to  make  me  exceedingly 
annoyed.  Dirty  encyclopedist !  Oh !  .  .  .  Here  she 
is  under  all  the  flames  of  Spring ! 

And  the  trees  turn  and  the  greensward  turns  round 
the  statue  of  Voltaire.  —  Decidedly,  it  is  a  beauti- 
ful green,  it  is  delicious,  the  Square  Monge :  green 
grass,  railing  and  benches  green,  green  policeman,  it  is, 
when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  a  beautiful  corner  of  the 
Universe.  —  I  climb  up  on  a  bench  the  colour  of  hope. 
One  should  be  able  to  see  me  from  the  whole  of  France. 

THE   SONG   OF   THE   ENGLISH 

Page  324.  It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary. 

Fire !  Tommy  .  .  .  My  heart  capers  to  the  bang- 
ing of  our  cannon.  Be  calm,  old  fellow.  Ah  !  it  is 
a  long  way,  a  long  way  to  Tipperary.  Since  yester- 
day's thirst  quenched  without  a  drop  of  whiskey,  I 
shoot,  every  one  shoots.     Ah !  .  .  .  it's  fine. 

Who  threw  me  his  bottle?  Ah,  old  Bob,  you're 
dead?  Be  calm,  dear  boy.  Soon  Leicester  .  .  . 
Square  ...  All  right !  He  died  for  old  England. 
The  bottle  is  empty.  Fire !  Tommy,  shoot  some 
more!  We  are  all  fighting  very  well,  all  right,  the 
dead  are  wrong. 


Appendix  A  465 


Qmet,  old  boy.  Ah,  it  is  a  long  way,  a  long  way 
to  TippCTary,  ovct  there,  near  the  pretty  girl  I  know. 
She  said  yes  wheai  I  said  no.  Fire,  Tommy.  My 
heart  criers  to  tlie  banging  erf  oar  cannon. 

Tommy,  undastand.  Tommy,  love  has  points. 
Yes,  it's  a  delicate,  distant  lady  that  one  never  reaches 
except  in  dreams.  O  big  mug!  You  dream  and 
everjrthing  comes;  the  soul  and  the  body  with  it. 
Here  there  is  nothing  but  death,  she  is  an  infernal 
womaiL 

Death  I  Ah !  if  I  had  looked  her  way,  the  German 
WDtdd  have  taken  my  neck  under  her  witiiered  arm, 
and  made  me  taste  her  mouth  with  shrapnel  for  teeth, 
soffocating  my  chest  to  torture.  Good  God,  love 
hasn't  anjtY'mg  cmeller  than  that. 

But  deaHi,  one  doesn't  think  about  it,  it  is  in  front. 
Calm,  lucky  chap.  Do  you  want  to  see  death  ?  She 
is  a  great,  old,  worn-out  skeleton,  floating  over  the 
battle  like  a  standard :  just  now  ^e  is  floating  over 
the  otir-f  helriets. 


Fire  I  Tommy  .  .  .  TTnat,  you  are  dying  too, 
faithfnl  fellow?  You  are  in  the  arms  of  the  infernal 
woman?  Get  up.  old  rr.zn  I  Ah,  it  is  a  long  way,  a 
long  way  to  Tipperar}-.     Goodbye,  Leicester  Square, 

Goodbye,  Piccadilly! 


2h 


466  Six  French  Poets 


We  were  fifteen,  hurrah,  there  are  three  of  us  mov- 
ing. O  cannon,  your  balls  are  tinged  with  our  blood, 
our  blood  which  makes  our  uniforms  red  again :  in 
front  of  us  the  Germans  are  bleeding  fear,  they  believe 
that  we  load  your  jaws  with  our  hearts. 

Dance,  dance  the  jig !  Ah,  yes  .  .  .  though  victors 
we  dance  our  jig  in  God's  open  sky.  We,  good  boys, 
we  are  at  Tipperary.  Hullo,  Kate;  hullo,  Annie; 
hullo,  Nellie  .  .  .  Our  hearts  are  comfortable,  pro- 
vided that,  on  earth, 

our  old  England  lives  forever ! 


APPENDIX  B 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 

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468  Six  French  Poets 

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Les  Visages  de  la  Vie,  poemes.      Couverture    et    ornemen- 


Appendix  B  469 

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(Reimpr. :  Les  Visages  de  la  Vie.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure  de  France,  1908.) 

POEMES  (j«  serie).  {Les  Visages  Illusoires.  Les  Apparus  dans 
mes  Chemins.  Les  Vignes  de  ma  Muraille.)  Paris,  Societe 
du  Mercure  de  France  (1899). 

Le  Cloitre,  drame  en  4  actes,  en  prose  et  en  vers.  Couverture 
et  ornementation  de  Theo  van  Rysselberghe.  Bmxelles, 
Deman,  1900.  (Reimpr.  dans  Deux  Drames.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1909.) 

Petites  Legendes,  po^mes.  Couverture  et  ornementation  de 
Theo  van  Rysselberghe.     Bmxelles,  Deman,  1900. 

Philippe  II,  tragedie  en  trois  actes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1901.  (Reimpr.  dans  Deux  Drames. 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1909.) 

Les  Forces  Tumultueuses,  po^mes.  Paris,  Society  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1902. 

Les  Villes  Tentaculaires,  precedees  des  Campagnes  Hallu- 
cinees,  poemes.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1904. 

Toute  la  Flandre  :  Les  Tendresses  Premieres,  poemes. 
Couverture  et  ornementation  de  Theo  van  Rysselberghe. 
Bmxelles,  Deman,  1904. 

Les  Heures  d'Apres-midi,  poemes.  Couverture  et  ornemen- 
tation de  Theo  van  Rysselberghe.  Bmxelles,  Deman, 
1905.  (Reimpr. :  Les  Heures  Claires.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1909.) 

Rembrandt  (Collection  "Les  Grands  Artistes,  leur  Vie,  leur 
CEuvre"),  biographic  critique  illustree  de  24  reproductions 
hors  texte.     Paris,  Laurens,  1905. 

Images  Japonaises,  texte  d'E.,  V.  .  .  .  illustrations  de 
Kwassou.    Tokio,  1906. 

La  Multiple  Splendeur,  poemes.  Paris,  Society  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1906. 

Toute  la  Flandre:     La  Guirlande  des  Dunes,  poemes. 


470  Six  French  Poets 

Couverture  et  ornementation  de  Theo  van  Rysselberghe. 
Bruxelles,  Deman,  1907. 

Les  Lettres  FRANgAiSES  EN  Belgique.  Bruxelles,  Lamertin, 
1907. 

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Mois),  poemes,  nouvelle  edition.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure  de  France,  1908. 

TouTE  LA  Flandre  :  Les  Herds.  Couverture  et  ornemen- 
tation de  Theo  van  Rysselberghe.     Bruxelles,  Deman,  1908. 

James  Ensor,  monographic.     Bruxelles,  E.  van  Oest,  1908. 

TouTE  LA  Flandre  :  Les  Villes  a  Pignons.  Bruxelles,  De- 
man, 1909. 

Helena's  Heimkehr.  Leipzig,  Insel-Verlag,  1909.  (Trans- 
lation by  Stefan  Zweig  from  ms.  of  Helene  de  S parte.) 

Les  Rhythmes  Souverains,  poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure  de  France,  19 10. 

Pierre-Paul  Rubens,  critique.  Bruxelles,  G.  van  Oest  &  Cie., 
1910. 

Les  Heures  du  Soir,  poemes.     Leipzig,  Insel-Verlag,   191 1. 

Helene  de  Sparte,  tragedie  en  4  actes.  Paris,  "Nouvelle 
Revue  Frangaise,"  191 2. 

TouTE  LA  Flandre:   Les  Plaines.     Bruxelles,  Deman,  1911. 

Les  Bles  Mouvants,  poemes.  Paris,  Cres,  1912.  (Reimpr. : 
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1913-) 
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Revue  Frangaise,"  1915. 

Albert  Samain 

Au  Jardin  de  l'Infante,  poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1893.  (Reimpr.:  augmentee  d'une  partie 
inedite:  L'Urne  Penchee.  Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1897.) 


Appendix  B  471 

Aux  Flancs  du  Vase,  poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1898.  (Reimpr. :  Aux  Flancs  du  Vase,  suivi  de 
Polypheme  et  des  Poemes  Inacheves.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1901.) 

Le  Chariot  d'Or  (Le  Chariot  d'Or.  Symphonie  Hero'ique), 
poemes.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1901. 

CoNTES  {Xanthis.  Divine.  Bontemps.  Hyalis,  Rover e  et  An- 
gisele).     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1902. 

Polypheme,  deux  actes  en  vers.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1906. 

Remy  de  Gourmont 

Merlette,  roman.     Paris,  Plon  et  Nourrit,  1886. 

SiXTiNE,  Roman  de  la  Vie  Cerehrale.     Paris,  Savine,  1890. 

Le  Latin  Mystique  :    Les  Poetes  de  V Antiphonaire  et  la  Sym- 

bolique  au  Moyen  Age.     Preface  de  J.-K.  Huysmans.     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1892. 
Litanies  de  la  Rose,  poemes.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 

France,  1892.     (Reimpr.  dans  Le  Pelerin  du  Silence.     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1896.) 
Lilith.     Paris,   des   Presses  des  "  Essais  d'Art  Libre,"  1892. 

(Reimpr. :  Lilith,  suivi  de  Theodat.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1906.) 
Le  Fantome,  avec    2    lithographies    originates    de    Henry    de 

Groux.     Paris,    Societe    du    Mercure    de    France,     1893. 

(Reimpr.    dans  Le  Pelerin  du  Silence.     Paris,  Societe  du 

Mercure  de  France,  1896.) 
Theodat,    poeme    dramatique    en    prose.     Paris,    Societe    du 

Mercure  de  France,  1893. 
L'Idealisme,    avec   un   dessin   de   Filiger.     Paris,  Societe  du 

Mercure  de  France,  1893. 
Fleurs  de  Jadis,   poemes.     Edition  elzevirienne.     Sans  nom 

d'auteurni  d'edit.     (Monnoyer  imprim.,  1893.)     (Reimpr. 


472  Six  French  Poets 

dans  Le  Pelerin  du  Silence.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1896.) 

HisTOiRES  Magiques,  con tenant  une  lithographic  de  Henry  de 
Groux.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1894. 

HiEROGLYPHES,  poemes.  Manuscrit  autographique  de  19  feu- 
illets,  avec  une  Hthographie  originale  de  Henry  de  Groux 
en  frontispice.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1894.  (Reimpr.  dans  Divertissements.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  19 14.) 

HisTOiRE  Tragique  DE  LA  Princesse  Phenissa,  cxpliquee  en 
quatre  episodes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1894.  (Reimpr.  dans  Le  Pelerin  du  Silence.  Paris,  Societe 
du  Mercure  de  France,  1896.) 

Proses  Moroses  (tirage  k  petit  nombre).  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1894.  (There  is  a  second  edition  of 
this  book,  undated.) 

Le  Chateau  Singulier,  ome  de  32  vignettes  en  rouge  et  en 
bleu :  tirage  a  petit  nombre.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1894.  (Reimpr.  dans  Le  Pelerin  du  Silence. 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1896.) 

Phocas,  avec  une  couverture  et  3  vignettes.  Paris,  Collec- 
tion de  I'Ymagier  et  se  "vend  au  Mercure  de  France," 
1895. 

La  Poesie  Populaire.  Paris,  Collection  de  I'Ymagier  et  se 
"vend  au  Mercure  de  France,"  1896. 

Le  Miracle  de  Theophile,  de  Rutebeuf,  texte  du  XHP 
si^cle  modernise,  public  avec  preface.  Paris,  tire  de 
I'Ymagier  et  "se  vend  par  le  Mercure  de  France,"  1896. 

AucASSiN  ET  Nicolette,  chantcfable  du  XIIP  si^cle,  trad, 
de  Lacume  de  Sainte-Palaye,  revue  et  complet^e  d'apr^s 
un  texte  original.     Paris,  L'Ymagier  (1896). 

L'Ymagier.  Ouvrage  publi6  en  8  fascicules  trimestriels,  de  64 
pages,  d'octobre  1894  k  juillet  1896,  contenant  environ 
300  gravures,   reproductions   d'anciens    bois  des  XV®  et 


Appendix  B  473 

XVP  siecles,  grandes  images  coloriees,  pages  de  vieux 
livres,  miniatures,  lithographies,  bois,  dessins,  etc.,  de 
M.-N.  Whistler,  Paul  Gauguin,  Filiger,  G.  d'Espagnat, 
A.  Seguin,  O'Connor,  L.  Roy,  etc.    Paris,  1896. 

Almanack  de  L'Ymagier,  1897,  zodiacal,  astrologique,  magique, 
cabalistique,  artistique,  litteraire  et  prophetique.  Orne  de 
25  bois  dessines  et  graves  par  Georges  d'Espagnat.  Vi- 
gnettes en  rouge  et  en  noir.  Couverture  en  4  couleurs. 
Paris,  s.  d. 

Le  Pelerin  du  Silence  (Phenissa.  Le  Fantome.  Le  Chateau 
Singulier.  Le  Livre  des  Litanies.  Theatre  Muet.  Le  Pelerin  du 
Silence).  Frontispice  d'Armand  Seguin.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1896. 

Le  Livre  des  Masques,  Portraits  Symbolistes,  Closes  et  Docu' 
tnents  sur  les  Ecrivains  d'Hier  et  d'Aujourd'hui.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1896. 

Les  Chevaux  de  Diomede,  roman.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1897. 

Le  Vieux  Roi,  tragedie  nouvelle.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1897. 

D'uN  Pays  Lointain,  contes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1898. 

Le  IP  Livre  des  Masques.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1898. 

Les  Saintes  du  Paradis.  Dix-neuf  petits  po^mes,  omes  de 
XIX  bois  originaux  dessines  et  tallies  par  Georges  d'Espa- 
gnat. Paris,  "se  vend  a  la  librairie  du  Mercure  de  France  " 
(1898).  (Reimpr.  dans  Divertissements.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1914.) 

EsTHETiQUE  DE  LA  Langue  Fran^aise  {La  Deformation.  La 
Metaphor e.  Le  Cliche.  Le  Vers  Libre.  Le  Vers  Populaire). 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1899. 

Le  Songe  d'une  Femme,  roman  familier.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1899. 


474  'S'^^  French  Poets 

La  Culture  des  Idees  {Du  Style  on  de  VEcriture.   La  Creation 
Subconsciente.  La  Dissociation  des  Idees.  Stephane  Mallarme 
et  I'Idee  de  Decadence.  Le  Paganisme  Eternel.  La  Morale  de 
V Amour.  Ironies  et  Paradoxes).     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1900. 
Oraisons  Mauvaises,  po^mes.    Ornes  par  Georges  d'Espagnat 
de  vignettes  en  deux  tons.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,    1900.     (Reimpr.  dans  Divertissements.     Paris,   So- 
ciete du  Mercure  de  France,  1914.) 
SiMONE,  Poeme  Champetre  (1892).     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1901.  (Tirage  a  petit  nombre  sur  papier  verge, 
couverture  en  papier  peint.)     (Reimpr.  dans  Divertissements. 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1914.) 
Le  Chemin  de  Velours,  Nouvelles  Dissociations  d* Idees.   Paris, 

Society  du  Mercure  de  France,  1902. 
Le  Probleme  du  Style.     Questions  d'Art,   de  Litterature  et 
de  Grammaire,  avec  une  preface  et  un  index  des  noms  cit^s. 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1902. 
Epilogues.     Reflexions  sur  la  Vie  (1895-1898).     Paris,  Societe 

du  Mercure  de  France,  1903. 
Physique  de  L'Amour.     Essai  sur  VInstinct    Sexuel.     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1903. 
Epilogues.     Reflexions  sur  la  Vie,  2«  serie  {1899-1901).     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1904. 
Judith  Gautier,   biographic   illustree   de   portrait   frontispice 
de  John  Sargent,  et  d'autogr.   etc.     Paris,   Biblioth.,  in- 
ternat.  d'edit.,  1904. 
Promenades  Litteraires.     Paris,    Societe    du    Mercure    de 

France,  1904. 
Promenades  Philosophiques.     Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de 

France,  1905. 
Epilogues.     Reflexions  sur  la  Vie,  3*  serie  (1902-1904).     Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1905. 


Appendix  B  475 

Promenades  Litteraires,  2"  sine.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure  de  France,  1906. 

Une  Nuit  au  Luxembourg,  roman.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure  de  France,  1906. 

Un  Cceur  Virginal,  roman.  Couverture  illustree  par  Georges 
d'Espagnat.     Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de  France,  1907. 

Dialogues  des  Amateurs  sur  les  Choses  du  Temps  (1905- 
1907).  (Epilogues,  4^  serie.)  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1907. 

Promenades  Philosophiques,  2«  serie.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1908. 

Promenades  Litteraires,  j*  serie.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1909. 

NouvEAUX  Dialogues  des  Amateurs  sur  les  Choses  du 
Temps  (1907-19 10).  {Epilogues,  5*  serie.)  Paris,  Societe 
du  Mercure  de  France,  1909. 

Promenades  Philosophiques,  3'  serie.  Paris,  Societ6  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1909. 

CouLEURS  {Conies  Nouveaux  siiivis  de  Choses  Anciennes) .  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  191 2. 

Promenades  Litteraires,  4*  serie.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1912. 

Divertissements  {Hieroglyphes.  Les  Saintes  du  Paradis.  Oral- 
sons  Mauvaises.  Simone.  Paysages  Spirituels.  Le  Vieux 
Cqffret.  La  Main),  poemes  en  vers.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  19 14. 

Lettres  d'un  Satyre.     Paris,  G.  Ores,  edit. 

Le  Chat  de  Misere.  Idees  et  Paysages.  (Messein,  edit.  Col- 
lection des  Trente.) 

Dante,  Beatrice  et  la  Poesie  Amoureuse,  critique.  (Serie, 
"  Les  Hommes  et  les  Idees.")  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,     s.  d. 

La  Belgique  Litteraire.     Paris,  G.  Crds,  191 5.  • 

Pendant  L'Orage.     Paris,  Librairie  Champion,  1915. 


476  Six  French  Poets 

Henri  de  Regnier 

Lendemains,  poesies.  Paris,  Vanier,  1885.  (Reimpr.  dans  le 
recueil :  Premiers  Poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1899.) 

Apaisement,  poesies.  Paris,  Vanier,  1886.  (Reimpr.:  Pre- 
miers Poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1899.) 

Sites,  poemes.  Paris,  Vanier,  1887.  (Reimpr. :  Premiers 
Poemes.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1899.) 

Episodes,  poemes.  Paris,  Vanier,  1888.  (Reimpr. :  Premiers 
Poemes.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1899.) 

Poemes  Anciens  et  Romanesques,  1887-1889.  Paris,  Li- 
brairie  de  I'Art  Independant,  1890.  (Reimpr.  dans  le 
recueil :  Poemes,  188^-1892.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1895.) 

Episodes,  Sites  et  Sonnets,  poemes.  Paris,  Vanier,  1891. 
(Reimpr. :  Premiers  Poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1895.) 

Tel  Qu'en  Songe,  poemes.  Paris,  Librairie  de  I'Art  Indepen- 
dant, 1892.  (Reimpr.:  Poemes,  1887-1892.  Paris,  Societe 
du  Mercure  de  France,  1895.) 

CoNTES  a  Soi-Meme,  prose.  Paris,  Librairie  de  I'Art  Inde- 
pendant, 1894.  (Reimpr.:  La  Canne  de  Jaspe.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1897.) 

Le  Bosquet  de  Psyche,  prose.  Bruxelles,  Lacomblez,  1894. 
(Reimpr.  dans  I'ouvrage  suivant :  Figures  et  Caracteres. 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1901.) 

Le  Trefle  Noir,  prose.  Paris,  Soci6te  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1895.  (Reimpr.  dans  La  Canne  de  Jaspe.  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1897.) 

Arethuse,  poemes.  Paris,  Librairie  de  I'Art  Independant, 
•1895.  (Reimpr.  dans  le  recueil:  Les  Jeux  Rustiques  et 
Divins.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1897.) 


Appendix  B  477 

PoEMES,  1 887-1 892  (Poemes  Anciens  et  Romanesques.  Tel 
Qu'en    Songe).     Paris,    Societe    du   Mercure   de  France, 

1895. 
Les   Jeux    Rustiques  et   Divins,   poemes.     {Arethuse.     Les 

Roseaux  de  la  FWe.  Inscriptions  pour  les  Treize  Fortes  de 

la  Ville.     La  Corbeille  des  Heures.  Poemes  Divers.)     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1897. 
La  Canne  de  Jaspe,  contes.     {M.  d'Amercosur.     Le  Trefle  Noir. 

Contes  a  Soi-Meme.)     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 

1897-  , 

Premiers  Poemes  {Les  Lendemains.  Apaisement.  Sites.  Epi- 
sodes. Sonnets.  Poesies  Diver ses).  Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1899. 

Le  Trefle  Blanc,  prose.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1899.  (Reimpr.  dans  Couleur  du  Temps.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1908.) 

La  Double  MaItresse,  roman.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1900. 

Les  Medailles  d'Argile,  poemes.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 
de  France,  1900. 

Figures  et  Caracteres  {Michelet.  Alfred  de  Vigny.  Hugo. 
Stephane  Mallarme.  Le  Bosquet  de  Psyche,  etc.,  etc.).  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1901. 

Les  Amants  Singuliers,  nouvelles.  (La  Femme  de  Marbre. 
Le  Rival.  La  Courte  Vie  de  Balthasar  Aldramin,  Venitien.) 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1901. 

Le  Bon  Plaisir,  roman.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1902. 

La  Cite  des  Eaux,  poemes.  Paris,  Soci^t^  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1902. 

Le  Mariage  de  Minuit,  roman  contemporain.  Paris,  Societe 
du  Mercure  de  France,  1903. 

Les  Vacances  d'un  Jeune  Homme  Sage,  roman.  Paris, 
Societ6  du  Mercure  de  France,  1903. 


478  Six  French  Poets 

Les  Rencontres  de  M.  de  Breot,  roman.     Paris,  Societe  du 

Mercure  de  France,  1904. 
Le  Passe  Vivant,  roman  modeme.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 

de  France,  1905. 
La  Sandale  Ailee   (1903-1905),  poemes.     Paris,   Society  du 

Mercure  de  France,  1906. 
SujETS  ET  Paysages,  Critique.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 

France,  1906. 
Esquisses  Venitiennes,  illustr.  de  Maxime  Dethomas.     Paris, 

Collection  de  "L'Art  Decoratif,"  1906. 
L'Amour  et  le  Plaisir,   histoire  galante.     Paris,    Barneoud, 

1906.     (Reimpr.  dans  Couleur  du  Temps.     Paris,  Societe 

du  Mercure  de  France,  1908.) 
La  Peur  de  l'Amour,  roman.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 

France,  1907. 
Trois  Contes  a  Soi-Meme.     (Le  Sixieme  Manage  de  Barbe- 

Bleue.    Le  Recit  de  la  Dame  des  Sept  Miroirs.     Le  Hertoir 

Vivant.)     Miniatures   de   Maurice   Ray.     Paris,   pour   les 

Cent  Bibliophiles,  1907. 
Les  Scrupules  de  Sganarelle,  comedie  en  trois  actes  et  en 

prose.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1908. 
Couleur  du  Temps,  contes.  {Le  Trefle  Blanc.     L'Amour  et  le 

Plaisir.     Tiburce   et   Ses  Amis.     Contes   pour  les    Treize.) 

Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1908. 
La  Flambee,  roman.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 

1909. 
Le  Miroir  des  Heures  (1906-1910),  poemes.     Paris,  Societe 

du  Mercure  de  France,  191 1. 
L'Amphisbene,   roman  modeme.     Paris,   Society  du  Mercure 

de  France,  1912. 
Le  Plateau  de  Laque,   contes.     Paris,   Societe  du   Mercure 

de  France,  1913. 
Portraits  et  Souvenirs,  critique.    Paris,  Soci6t6  du  Mercure 

de  France,  1913. 


Appendix  B  479 

RoMAiNE  MiRMAULT,  roman.     Paris,  Soci6te  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1914. 


Francis  Jammes 

Six  Sonnets.  Orthez,  Typographie  J.  Goude-Dumesnil,  1891. 
Vers.    Orthez,  Typographie  J.  Goude-Dumesnil,  1892. 
Vers.     Orthez,  Typographie  J.  Goude-Dumesnil,  1893. 
Vers.    Paris,  Ollendorff,  1894. 
Un  Jour,    poeme    dialogue.     Paris,    Soci^te   du    Mercure   de 

France,  1896. 
La  Naissance  du  Poete,  poeme.     Bruxelles,  Edition  du  "Coq 

Rouge,"  1897. 
De  L'Angelus  de  L'Aube  a  L'Angelus  du  Soir,  i 888-1 897, 

poesies.  {De  VAngelus  de  I'Aube  d  VAngelus  du  Soir.     La 

Naissance  du  Poete.     Un  Jour.     La  Mort  du  Poete.)     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1898. 
Quatorze  Prieres.     Orthez,  Imprimerie  E.  Paget,  1898. 
La  Jeune  Fille  Nue,    poeme.     Paris,    Petite    Collection   de 

"I'Ermitage,"  1899. 
Clara  d'Ellebeuse  ou  L'Histoire  d'une  Ancienne  Jeune 

Fille,  roman.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1899. 

(Reimpr.  a  la  suite  du  Roman  du  Lievre.     Paris,  Soci^t6 

du  Mercure  de  France,  1903.) 
Le  Poete  et  l'Oiseau,  poesies.     Paris,  Petite   Collection  de 

"I'Ermitage,"  1899. 
Le  Deuil  des  Primeveres,  poemes,  1 898-1900.  {Elegies.     La 

Jeune  Fille  Nue.   Le  Poete  et  l'Oiseau.   Poesies  Diver ses.    Qua- 
torze Prieres.)      Paris,    Societe    du    Mercure   de    France, 

1901. 
Almaide  d'Etremont  ou    L'Histoire    d'une    Jeune    fille 

Passionnee,  roman.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 

1901.     (Reimpr.  a  la  suite  du  Roman  du  Lievre.     Paris, 

Society  du  Mercure  de  France,  1903.) 


480  Six  French  Poets 

Le  Triomphe  de  la  Vie,  poemes,  1900-1901.  {Jean  de  Noarrieu. 

Existences.)     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1902. 
Le  Roman  du  Lievre.  {Clara  d'Ellebeuse.  Alma'ide  d'Etremont. 

Les  Chases.  Contes.  Notes  sur  des  Oasis.  Sur  J. -J.  Rousseau.) 

Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1903. 
Pomme  d'Anis  ou  L'Histoire  d'une  Jeune  Fille  Infirme, 

roman.     Paris,    Societe    du    Mercure    de    France,    1904. 

(Reimpr.  dans  Feuilles  dans  le  Vent.    Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1913.) 
(Cahier  de  Vers),    vingt-cinq    petits    poemes,    publics    sans 

titre,  sans  date,  sans  indication  de  lieu  et  sans  nom  d'dditeur. 

Orthez,  Imprimerie  E.  Paget  (1905). 
Pensee  des  Jardins,  prose  et  vers.     Paris,  Soci6t6  du  Mercure 

de  France,  1906. 
L'Eglise  Habillee  de  Feuilles,  poesies.    Paris,  Soci^t^  du 

Mercure  de  France,  1906. 
Clairieres  dans  le  Ciel,    poemes,    1902-1906.     {En    Dieu. 

Tristesses.    Le  PoHe  et  sa  Femme.   Poesies  Diverses.   L'Eglise 

Habillee  de  Feuilles.)     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 

1906. 
Poemes  Mesures.     Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de  France,  1908. 

(A  small,  privately-printed  edition  only.) 
Ma  Fille  Bernadette,  prose.     Paris,  Soci6t6  du  Mercure  de 

France,  1908. 
Les  Georgiques  Chretiennes,    po^me.    Paris,    Societe    du 

Mercure  de  France,  1912. 
Feuilles  dans  le  Vent,  prose  et  vers.     {Meditations.     Quelque 

Hommes.     Pomme    d'A7iis.      La    Brebis    Egaree.)     Paris, 

Soci6t6  du  Mercure  de  France,  1913. 

Paul  Fort 

La  Petite  BtTE,  com^die  en  un  acte,  en  prose.    Paris,  Vanier, 
1890. 


Appendix  B  481 

Plusieurs  Choses,  poesies.  Paris,  Librairie  de  I'Art  Ind^pen- 
dant,  1894. 

Premieres  Lueurs  sur  la  Colline,  poesies.  Paris,  Librairie 
de  I'Art  Independant,  1894. 

MoNNAiE  DE  Per,  poesies  et  poemes  en  prose.  Paris,  Librairie 
de  I'Art  Independant,  1894. 

Presque  les  Doigts  aux  Cles.  Paris,  Librairie  de  I'Art 
Independant,  1895. 

Il  Y  A  LA  des  Cris,  po^sies.  Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1895. 

Ballades  {Ma  Legende.  Mes  Legendes),  poemes  en  prose.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1896.  (Reimpr.  dans  Bal- 
lades Franqaises,  Poemes  et  Ballades,  i8q4-i8q6.  Preface 
de  Pierre  Louys.    Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de  France, 

1897.) 

Ballades  (La  Mer.  Les  Cloches.  Les  Champs),  poemes  en 
prose.  Paris,  Edition  du  "Livre  d'Art  et  de  I'Epreuve," 
1896.  (Reimpr.  dans  Ballades  Franqaises,  Poemes  et  Bal- 
lades, i8g4-i8g6.  Preface  de  Pierre  Louys.  Paris,  Society 
du  Mercure  de  France,  1897.) 

Ballades  {Les  Saisons.  Aux  Champs,  sur  la  Route  et  devant 
VAtre.  Mes  Legendes.  L'Orage),  poemes  en  prose.  Paris, 
Society  du  Mercure  de  France,  1896.  (Reimpr.  dans 
Ballades  Franqaises,  Poemes  et  Ballades,  1894-1896.  Preface 
de  Pierre  Louys.  Paris,  Soci6te  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1897.) 

Ballades  {Louis  XI,  Curieux  Homme) ,  poemes  en  prose.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1896.  (Reimpr.  dans 
Ballades  Franqaises,  Poemes  et  Ballades,  1894-1896.  Preface 
de  Pierre  Louys.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1897.) 

Ballades  Francaises,  premiere  serie.  Preface  de  Pierre 
Louys.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1897. 

MoNTAGNE.  FoRET.    Plaine.    Mer.   Ballades   Franqaises,  II' 
serie.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1898. 
2i 


482  Six  French  Poets 

Le  Roman  de  Louis  XI,  Ballades  Franqaises,  III'  serie. 
Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1899. 

Les  Idylles  Antiques,  Ballades  Franqaises,  IV'  serie.  Paris, 
Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1900. 

L'Amour  Marin,  Ballades  Franqaises,  V  serie.  Paris,  Soci6t6 
du  Mercure  de  France,  1900. 

Paris  Sentimental  ou  le  Roman  de  nos  Vingt  Ans,  Ballades 
Franqaises,  VI*  serie.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1902. 

Les  Hymnes  de  Feu,  prec6d^s  de  Lucienne,  Ballades  Fran- 
qaises, VIP  serie.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 
1903. 

Coxcomb  ou  l'Homme  tout  Nu  Tombe  du  Paradis,  Ballades 
Franqaises,  VIII'  serie.  Precede  de  :  Le  Livre  des  Visions 
—  Henri  III.     Paris,  Society  du  Mercure  de  France,  1906. 

Ile-de-France  (Paris),  Ballades  Franqaises,  IX'  serie.  (Col- 
lection "Vers  et  Prose.")     Paris,  Figuiere  (1908). 

Saint-Jean-aux-Bois.  {Coucy-le-Chdteau  et  .louv-en-Josas.) 
(Collection  "Vers  et  Prose.")  Paris,  Figuiere  (1908).  (Pri- 
vately printed.) 

MoRTCERF,  Ballades  Franqaises,  X'  serie.  Precede  d'une 
Etude  sur  les  Ballades  Franqaises,  par  Louis  Mandin.  (Col- 
lection "Vers  et  Prose.")     Paris,  Figuiere  (1909). 

La  Tristresse  de  L'Homme,  Ballades  Franqaises,  XI'  serie. 
Precede  du  :  Repos  de  VAme  au  Bois  de  VHautil.  (Collec- 
tion "Vers  et  Prose.")     Paris,  Figuiere  (1910). 

L'Aventure  Eternelle,  Ballades  Franqaises,  XII'  serie. 
Suivie  de:  En  Gatinais.  (Collection  "Vers  et  Prose.") 
Paris,  Figuiere,  191 1. 

Montlhery-la-Bataille,  Ballades  Franqaises,  XIII'  serie. 
Suivie  de:  VAventure  Eternelle  {Livre  II).  (Collection 
"Vers  et  Prose.")      Paris,  Figuiere,  1912. 

Vivre  en  Dieu,  Ballades  Franqaises,  XIV'  serie.  Suivi  de: 
Naissance  du  Printemps  a  la  Ferte-Milon,  et  de  L'Aventure 


Appendix  B  483 

Eternelle  (Livre  III).    (Collection  "Vers  et  Prose. ")     Paris, 
Figuiere,  191 2. 
Chansons  pour  me   Consoler  d'Etre    Heureux,     Ballades 
Franqaises,  XV ^  serie.     Suivies  de:    L'Aventure  Eternelle 
{Livre  IV).     (Collection  "Vers  et  Prose. ")     Paris,  Figuidre, 

1913- 
Choix  de  Ballades  Francaises.  (Collection  "Vers  et  Prose.") 

Paris,  Figuidre,  1913. 
Les  Nocturnes,  Ballades  Franqaises,  XV I^  serie.     (Collection 

"Vers  et  Prose.")     Paris,  Figuiere,  1914. 

Reference  Books 

Bazalgette,  Leon :   Emile  Verhaeren.    (Opinions  et  une  biblio- 

graphie  par    Ad.    van    Bever.)     (Serie,    "Les    Celebrit^s 

d'Aujourd'hui. ")     Paris,  Sansot,  1907. 
Bersaucourt,  Albert  de :  Conference  sur  Emile  Verhaeren. 

Paris,  Jouve,  1908. 
Boer,  Julius  de :   Emile  Verhaeren.     (Portrait  par  Theo  van 

Rysselberghe  et  fac -simile  d'autographe.)  s.  1.  n.  d.  (1907). 

(S^rie,    "Mannen   en   Vrouwen    van   beteekenis   in   onze 

dagen. ") 
Bosch,  Firmin  van  den :    Impressions  de  Litterature  Con- 

temporaine.     Bruxelles,  Vromont  et  Cie,  1905. 
Buisseret,     Georges:      L'Evolution     Ideologique     d'Emile 

Verhaeren.     (Serie  "Les  Hommes  et  les  Idees.")     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  191  o. 
Casier,  Jean:    Les  "Moines"   d'Emile  Verhaeren.     Gand, 

Leliaer  &  Siffer,  1887. 
Gauchez,  Maurice :   Emile  Verhaeren.     Bruxelles,  6dition  de 

"Thyrse,"  1908. 
Guilbeaux,  Henri :  Emile  Verhaeren.    Verviers,  Wauthy,  1908. 
Hauser,  Otto:    Die  Belgische  Lyrik  von  1880-1900.     Gros- 

senhain,  Baumert  und  Rouge,  1902. 


484  -Six  French  Poets 

Heumann,  Albert :  Le  Mouvement  Litteraire  Belge.     Paris, 

Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1913. 
Horrent,  Desire:    Ecrivains  Belges  d'Aujourd'Hui.     Brux- 

elles,  Lacomblez,  1904. 
Lemonnier,   Camille:    La   Vie    Belge.      Paris,  E.  Fasquelle, 

1905. 
Mockel,  Albert:    Emile  Verhaeren.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mer- 
cure de  France,  1895. 
Ramaekers,   Georges :    Emile  Verhaeren.     (I.  L'Homme   du 

Nord.    II.  L'Homme  Moderne.)    Bruxelles,  editions  de  "  La 

Lutte,"  1900. 
Rency,  Georges:    Physionomies  Litteraires.     Bruxelles,  De- 

chenne  et  Cie.,  1907. 
Schellenberg,    E.    A. :     Emile  Verhaeren.     Leipzig,    Xenien- 

Verlag,  191 1. 
Schlaf,    Johannes:     Emile  Verhaeren.    Berlin    &    Leipzig, 

Schuster  &  Loeflfler  (1905). 
Smet,  Abbe  Jos.  de :  Emile  Verhaeren,  sa  Vie  et  ses  CEuvres. 

Malines,  1909. 
Wenguerowa,  Zinaida:    Portraits  Litteraires.     (Tome  2.) 

Etude  reproduite  en  partie  dans  le  Grand   Dictioimaire 

Encyclopedique  Russe,  edition  Brokaus  et  Efron,  tome  sup- 

plementaire  I.  Saint  Petergbourg,  1905. 
Zweig,    Stefan:    Emile   Verhaeren.     (Translated    from   the 

German  into  English  by  J.  Bithell.)     London,  Constable; 

Boston  &  New  York,  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  1914. 
Bersaucourt,  Albert  de :   Conference   sur  A.   Samain,  Pro- 

noncee  le  4  Decembre  1907  Au  Cercle  des  Etudiants 

Catholiques  du   Luxembourg.    Paris,   Bonvalot-Jouve, 

s.d. 
Bocquet,  Leon :  Albert  Samain,  sa  Vie,  son  (Euvre.    Avec 

un  portrait  et  un  autogr.     Preface  de  Francis  Jammes. 

Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1905. 
Coppee,  Francois:     MoN  Franc-Parler.     (2*  shie.)     Paris, 

Lemeurre,  1894. 


Appendix  B  485 

Jarry,  Alfred:  Souvenirs.     Paris,  V.  Lemasle,  1907. 

Vallette,  Alfred :  Albert  Samain,  notice  dans  Les  Portraits  du 
Prochain  Steele.     Paris,  Girard,  1894. 

Delior,  Paul :  Remy  de  Gourmont  et  son  (Euvre.  (Serie  "  Les 
Hommes  et  les  Idees.")  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  1909. 

Denise,  Louis :  Remy  de  Gourmont,  notice  publiee  dans  Les 
Portraits  du  Prochain  Steele.     Paris,  Girard,  1894. 

Escoube,  Paul:  Preferences.  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de 
France,  19 13. 

Goffin,  Arnold :  A  Propos  de  Style  et  d'Esthetique.  Brux- 
elles,  Societe  Beige  de  Librairie,  1903. 

Miomandre,  Francis  de:   Visages.     Bruges,  A.  Herbert,  1907. 

Poinsot,  M.  C. :  Anthologie  des  Poetes  Normands  Con- 
temporains.     Paris,  Floury,  1903. 

Querlon,  Pierre  de:  Remy  de  Gourmont.  (Opinions,  docu- 
ments et  une  bibliographie  par  Ad.  van  Bever.)  (Serie 
"Les  Celebrites  d'Aujourd'hui. ")     Paris,  Sansot,  1903. 

Vorluni,  Giuseppe :  Remy  de  Gourmont.  Napoli,  Detken  & 
RochoU,  1911. 

Gourmont,  Jean  de  :  Henri  de  Regnier  et  son  CEuvre.  Avec 
un  portrait  et  un  autogr.  (Bibliographie  par  Ad.  van  Bever.) 
(Serie  "Les  Hommes  et  les  Idees.")  Paris,  Societe  du 
Mercure  de  France,  1908. 

Leautaud,  Paul:  Henri  de  Regnier.  (Biogr.  precedee  d'un 
portr.  illustr.  et  autogr.  suivie  d'opinions  et  d'une  bibli- 
ographic par  Ad.  van  Bever.)     Paris,  Sansot,  1904. 

Mauclair,  Camille :  Henri  de  Regnier.  Portraits  du  Prochain 
Steele.     Paris,  Girard,  1894. 

Mockel,  Albert :  Propos  de  Litterature.  Paris,  Librairie  de 
L'Art  Independant,  1894. 

Braun,  Thomas:  Des  Poetes  Simples:  Francis  Jammes. 
Bnixelles,  "Federation  de  Libre  Esthetique,"  1900. 

Pilon,  Edmond:  Francis  Jammes  et  le  Sentiment  de  la 
Nature.     (Bibliographie    par    Ad.    van    Bever.)     (Serie, 


486  Six  French  Poets 

*'Les  Hommes  et  les  Idees.")     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure 

de  France,  1908. 
Hirsch,  Paul-Armand:    Paul  Fort,  notice  dans  Les  Portraits 

du  Prochain  Siecle.     Paris,  Girard,  1894. 
Mandin,  Louis :  Etude  sur  les  "Ballades  Francaises"  de 

Paul  Fort.     (Collection  "Vers  et  Prose.")     Paris,  Fig- 

uiere,  191 1. 
Beaunier,  Andre:    La  Poesie  Nouvelle.     Paris,  Societe  du 

Mercure  de  France,  1902. 
Bever,  Ad.  van,  et   Leautaud,  Paul :    Poetes  d'Aujourd'hui 

(nouvelle  edition).  Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France, 

1910. 
Blum,  Leon :    En  Lisant.     Reflexions  Critiques.   Paris,  Societe 

d'Ed.  Litter.,  1906. 
Bordeaux,  Henri:    Les  Ecrivains  et  les  Mceurs,  Essais  et 

Figurines  (1897-1900).     Paris,  Plon,  1900. 
Brisson,  Adolphe:   Pointes  Seches.     Paris,  A.  Colin,  1898. 
Coulon,   Marcel:    Temoignages.     Paris,   Societe  du   Mercure 

de  France,  191 1. 
Deschamps,  Gaston :  La  Vie  et  les  Livres.     (j«  serie.)    Paris, 

A.  Colin,  1896. 
Doumic,  Rene:   Les  Jeunes.     Paris,  Perrin,  1896. 
Duhamel,  Georges:    Les  Poetes  et  la  Poesie  (1912-1913). 

Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1914. 
Florian-Parmentier :  Toutes  les  Lyres.     (Anthologie  Critique 

omee  de  dessins  et    de  portraits,  nouvelle  serie.)     Paris, 

Gastein-Serge  (191 1). 
Fons,  Pierre:    L'Ame  Latine.     Nos  Maitres.    Toulouse,  1903. 
Fons,  Pierre:   Le  Reveil  de  P.a.llas.     Paris,  Sansot,  1906. 
Gilbert,  Eugene :   France  et  Belgique.     Paris,  Plon,  Nourrit 

et  Cie.,  1905. 
Gosse,  Edmund:  French  Profiles.   London,  Heinemann,  1902. 
Gregh,   Fernand :    La   Fenetre   Guverte.     Paris,   Fasquelle, 

1901. 


Appendix  B  487 

Hamel,  A.  G.  Van:    Hex  Letterkundig  leven  van  Frank- 

RijK.     Amsterdam,  Gids,  1907. 
Heumann,  Albert :   Le  Mouvement  Litteraire  Belge  d'Ex- 

PRESsiON    Francaise    depuis    i88o.     Paris,    Societe   du 

Merctire  de  France,  1913. 
Huret,  Jules :  Enquete  sur  l'Evolution  Litteraire.     Paris, 

Charpentier-Fasquelle,  1 89 1 . 
Key,  Ellen:   Seelen  und  Werke.     Berlin,  S.  Fischer,  1911. 
Kinon,  Victor:    Portraits  d'Auteurs.     Bnixelles,  Dechenne, 

1910. 
Lasserre,  Pierre :  Le  Romantisme  Fran^ais.     Paris,  Societe  du 

Mercure  de  France,  191 3. 
Lazare,   Bernard:    Figures  Contemporaines.     Paris,  Perrin, 

1895. 
Mercereau,  Alexandre:  La  Litterature  et  les  Idees  Nou- 

velles.     Paris,  Figuiere;   London,  Stephen  Swift,  1912. 
Nouhuys,  W.    G.   Van:    Van  over  de  Grezen,  Studien   en 

Critieken.     Baarn,  HoUandia  Dnikkerij,  1906. 
Gppeln-Bronikowski,  F.  von  :  Das  Junge  Frankreich.     Berlin, 

CEsterheld  &  Co.,   1908. 
Pellissier,  Georges :   Etudes  de  Litterature  Contemporaine. 

Paris,  Perrin,  1898. 
Pellissier,  Georges:    Etudes  de  Litterature  et  de  AIorale 

Contemporaine.     Paris,  Perrin,  1905. 
Rette,  Adolphe :  Le  Symbolisme.     Paris,  Librairie  Leon  Vanier, 

1903. 
Rimestad,  Christian :  Fransk  Poesi  i  det  Nittende  Aarhun- 

drede.     Kopenhague,  Det  Schubotheske,   1906. 
Souza,   Robert    de:    La   Poesie   Populaire   et  le    Lyrisme 

Sentimental.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1899. 
Tellier,  Jules:   Nos  Poetes.     Paris,  Despret,  1888. 
Thompson,  Vance:    French  Portraits.     Boston,  Richard  G, 

Badger  &   Co.,   1900;    New   York,    Mitchell   Kennerley, 

1915- 


488  Six  French  Poets 

Velley,  Charles  et  Le  Cardonnel,  Georges:    La  Litterature 

CoNTEMPORAiNE,    1905.      Opinions    des    Ecrivains    de    ce 
Temps.     Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1906. 
Vigie-Lecoq,   E. :    La   Poesie    Contemporaine    (1884-1896). 

Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,  1897. 
Visan,  Tancrede  de :  L'Attitude  du  Lyrisme  Contemporaine. 

Paris,  Societe  du  Mercure  de  France,   191 1. 
Wyzewa,  Theodor  de:   Nos  Maitres.     Paris,  Perrin,   1895. 
Zilliacus,  Emil :    Den  Nyare  Franska  Poesin  och  Antiken. 

Helsingfors,  Aktiebolaget  Handelstryckeriet,    1905. 


Printed  in  thie  United  States  of  America. 


*HE  following  pages   contain   advertisements  of 
Macmillan  books  by  the  same  author. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Pictures  of  the  Floating  World 

By  -\]MY   LOWELL 

Fourth  edition,  $1.75 

"The  heart  of  the  volume  is  a  garden.  .  .  .  The  book  is  as  local  as 
the  'Hesperides,'  and  as  deeply  pen^aded  by  the  spell  of  the  genius  of 
a  place.  .  .  .  The  beauty  that  knocks  at  the  gates  of  the  senses  lies 
on  page  after  page  with  a  clarity  and  an  almost  radiant  succinctness 
for  which  I  know  few  parallels.  .  .  .  Surpassing  and  (I  think)  enduring 
beauty."  —  Professor  John  Livingston  LoiL'es  in  The  Boston  Transcript. 

"It  is  a  book  of  impressions,  fleeting  and  delicate,  yet  keenly  and 
v-ix-idly  defined.  .  .  .  Here  we  have  imagism  at  its  best ;  a  lovely  ges- 
ture caught  at  its  highest  curv^e  of  grace,  sj-mbolizing  a  universal  emo- 
tion. .  .  .  Originality  and  individuality  are  precious  qualities,  and 
Miss  LoweU  possesses  them  beyond  any  other  lixing  poet  we  can  think 
of."  —  Nerd}  York  Times  Book  Revisu'. 

"There  is  a  riot  of  fancy^  here,  a  confused  lu.Turiance  as  rich  and  tropical 
as' the  garden  which  seems  to  be  the  centre  of  Miss  Lowell's  lyric  inspira- 
tion. ...  A  Ij-rical  undertone  per\-ades  even  the  least  musical  of  the 
poems  in  the  introspective  section  excellently  entitled  'Plummets  to 
Circumstance,'  and  a  dramatic  touch  intensifies  them.  Miss  Lowell 
makes  even  the  most  casual  descriptions  ...  an  adventure  in  excite- 
ment. With  its  multiform  interest,  its  increase  in  human  warmth, 
and,  above  all,  vrith  its  rich  mingling  of  personality  and  pattern-making, 
'Pictiires  of  the  Floating  World'  may  well  come  to  be  Miss  Lowell's  most 
popular  book."  —  Louis  Untermeyer  in  The  Xru.'  York  Evening  Post. 

"There  is  a  soft  enchanted  quietness  blown  about  'Lacquer  Prints,' 
drenched  as  they  are  vnth  the  influence  of  Japan  till  they  crust  to  a  porce- 
lain frailer  than  the  lining  of  a  bird's  egg,  or  the  flushed  enamel  of  a  sea- 
buried  shell.  Life  and  movement  are  subdued  to  a  thin  stem  holding 
an  open  flower.  They  are  pure  colour  expressed  in  curvmg  lines  drawn 
over  thoughts  so  intimate  they  shrink,  even  in  reading,  back  to  solitude. 
Profound  and  lovely.  .  .  .  That  is  it.  The  offering  of  her  own  \-ision 
to  unobservant  eyes,  the  breaking  of  iimumerable  barriers,  for,  among 
all  poets.  Miss  Lowell  is  essentially  an  explorer."  —  W.  Bryher,  in  The 
Art  of  Amy  LoweU.    A  Critical  Appreciation.     London. 

"In  'The  Floating  Worid'  .  .  .  Amy  LoweU  has  shown  us  again  that 
she  can  make  a  thick  volume  of  verse  as  entertaining  as  a  book  of  pictures. 
She  makes  pictures  in  verse  again  and  again,  and  aU  her  pictures  are  in- 
vested with  a  touch  of  human  passion  or  fantasy."  —  The  New  Republic. 


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Can  Grande's  Castle 

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"The  poems  in  'Can  Grande's  Castle'  are  only  four  in  number,  but  two  of  them 
.  .  .  touch  magnificence.  'The  Bronze  Horses'  has  a  larger  sweep  than  Miss  Lowell 
has  ever  attempted;  she  achieves  here  a  sense  of  magnitude  and  time  that  is  amaz- 
ing. .  .  .  Not  in  all  contemporary  poetry  has  the  quality  of  balance  and  return  been 
so  beautifully  illustrated."  —  Louis  Untermeyer  in  The  New  Era  in  American  Poetry. 

" '  Can  Grande's  Castle '  challenges,  through  its  vividness  and  contagious  zest  in  life 
and  color,  an  unreluctant  admiration  ...  its  rare  union  of  vigor  and  deftness,  pre- 
cision and  flexibility,  imaginative  grasp  and  clarity  of  detail."  —  Professor  John  Living- 
ston Lowes  in  Convention  and  Reaolt  in  Poetry, 

'"Sea-Blue  and  Blood-Red' and 'Guns  as  Keys:  and  the  Great  Gate  Swings'  .  .  . 
are  such  a  widening  of  barriers;  they  bring  into  literature  an  element  imperceptible 
in  pyoetiy  before  .  .  .  the  epic  of  modernitj'  concentrated  into  thirty  pages.  .  .  .  Not 
since  the  Elizabethans  has  such  a  masterj-  of  words  been  reached  in  English  .  .  .  one 
had  never  surmised  such  enchantment  could  have  been  achieved  with  words."  —  W. 
Bryher  in  The  Art  of  Amy  Lowell.    A  Critical  Appreciation.    London. 

"The  essential  element  of  Miss  Lowell's  poetry  is  vividness.  %'i%-idness  and  a  power 
to  concentrate  into  a  few  pages  the  spirit  of  an  age.  She  indicates  perfectly  the  slightest 
sense  of  atmosphere  in  a  period  or  a  city.  .  .  .  But  the  spirit  of  these  poems  is  not 
the  fashioning  of  pictures,  however  brilliant,  of  the  past;  it  is  the  re-creation  of  epic 
moments  of  history  made  real  as  this  present  through  her  own  indi\-iduality  and 
vision."  —  Thi  London  Xalion. 

"We  have  come  to  it  — ■  once  Poe  was  the  living  and  commanding  poet,  whose  things 
were  waited  for.  .  .  .  Now  we  watch  and  wait  for  .\my  Lowell's  poems.  Success 
justifies  her  work.  .  .  .  Each  separate  poem  in  '  Can  Grande's  Castle '  is  a  real  and 
true  poem  of  remarkable  power  —  a  work  of  imagination,  a  moving  and  beautiful 
thing."  —  Joseph  E.  Chamberhiin  in  The  Boston  Transcript. 

'"Can  Grande's  Castle'  is,  in  the  opinion  of  the  present  re\'iewer,  not  only  the 
best  book  which  Miss  Lowell  has  so  far  written,  but  a  great  book  per  se.  .  .  .  It  is  a 
frank  and  revealing  book.  It  deals  with  fundamentals.  ...  In  "Sea-Blue  and  Blood- 
Red'  we  have  the  old  storj-  of  Nelson  and  'mad,  whole-hearted  Lady  Hamilton'  retold 
in  a  stj'le  that  dazzles  and  excites  like  golden  standards  won  from  the  enemy  passing  in 
procession  with  the  sua  upon  them."  —  The  New  York  Times  Book  Retiev. 


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Men,  Women  and  Ghosts 

By  amy  LOWELL 


Fifth  edition,  $1.75 


".  .  .  In  the  poem  which  gave  its  name  to  a  previous  volume,  'Sword 
Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,'  Miss  Lowell  uttered  her  Credo  with  rare  sincerity 
and  passion.  Not  since  Elizabeth  Barrett's  'Vision  of  Poets'  has  there  been 
such  a  confession  of  faith  in  the  mission  of  poetry,  such  a  stern  compulsion  of 
dedication  laid  upon  the  poet.  And  in  her  latest  work  we  find  proof  that  she 
has  lived  according  to  her  confession  and  her  dedication  with  a  singleness  of 
purpose  seldom  encountered  in  our  fluid  time. 

"'Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts'  is  a  book  greatly  and  strenuously  imagined. 
.  .  .  Miss  Lowell  is  a  great  romantic.  .  .  .  She  belongs  to  the  few  who,  in 
every  generation,  feel  that  poetry  is  a  high  calling,  and  who  press  undeviatingly 
toward  the  mark.  They  are  few,  and  they  are  frequently  lonely,  but  they  lead." 
—  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 

".  .  .  '  The  Hammers '  is  a  really  thrilling  piece  of  work  ;  the  skill  with  which 
it  is  divided  into  different  moods  and  motifs  is  something  more  than  a  tour  de 
force.  The  way  the  different  hammers  are  characterized  and  given  voice,  the 
varying  music  wrung  from  them  (from  the  ponderous  banging  of  the  hammers 
at  the  building  of  the  '  Bellerophon '  to  their  light  tapping  as  they  pick  off  the 
letters  of  Napoleon's  victories  on  the  arch  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel),  the 
emphasis  with  which  they  reveal  a  whole  period  —  these  are  the  things  one  sees 
rarely."  —  LOUIS  Untermeyer  in  the  Chicago  Evening  Post. 

".  .  .  Beautiful  .  .  .  poetry  as  authentic  as  any  we  know.  It  is  individual, 
innocent  of  echo  and  imitation,  with  the  uniqueness  that  comes  of  personal 
genius.  .  .  .  Miss  Lowell  strives  to  get  into  words  the  effects  of  the  painter's 
palette  and  the  musician's  score.  And  life  withal.  Does  she  succeed  ?  1 
should  say  she  does,  and  the  first  poem  in  this  book, '  Patterns,"  is  a  brilliant, 
Eesthetic  achievement  in  a  combination  of  story,  imagism,  and  symbolism. 
'  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts '  is  a  volume  that  contains  beautiful  poetry  for  all 
readers  who  have  the  root  of  the  matter  in  them."  —  Reedy' s  Mirror,  St.  Louis. 

"  The  most  original  of  all  the  young  American  writers  of  to-day."  —  The  New 
Age,  London, 

"  Brilliant  is  the  term  for  '  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts '  —  praise  which  holds 
good  when  the  book  is  put  to  the  test  of  a  third  reading."  —  Edward 
Garnett  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


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Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed 

By  amy  LOWELL 

Fourth  edition,  $i-75 

OPINIONS  OF  LEADING  REVIEWERS 

"Against  the  multitudinous  array  of  daily  verse  our  times  produce 
this  volume  utters  itself  with  a  range  and  brilliancy  wholly  remark- 
able. I  cannot  see  that  Miss  LowelPs  use  of  unrhymed  vers  litre 
has  been  surpassed  in  English.  Read  'The  Captured  Goddess,' 
'  Music '  and  '  The  Precinct.  Rochester,'  a  piece  of  mastercraft  in 
this  kind.  A  wealth  of  subtleties  and  sympathies,  gorgeously 
wrought,  full  of  macabre  effects  (as  many  of  the  poems  are)  and 
briUiantly  worked  out.  The  things  of  splendor  she  has  made  she 
will  hardly  outdo  in  their  kind."  —  Josephine  Preston  Peabody, 
The  Boston  Herald. 

"  For  quaint  pictorial  exactitude  and  bizarrerie  of  color  these 
poems  remind  one  of  Flemish  masters  and  Dutch  tulip  gardens  ; 
again,  they  are  fine  and  fantastic,  like  Venetian  glass ;  and  they  are 
all  curiously  flooded  with  the  moonhght  of  dreams.  .  .  .  Miss 
Lowell  has  a  remarkable  gift  of  what  one  might  call  the  dramatic- 
decorative.  Her  decorative  imagery  is  intensely  dramatic,  and  her 
dramatic  pictures  are  in  themselves  vivid  and  fantastic  decorations." 
—  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 

"  Such  poems  as  '  A  Lady,'  '  Music,'  '  White  and  Green,'  are  well- 
nigh  flawless  in  their  beauty — perfect  'images.'" — Harriet 
Monroe,  Poetry. 

"  Her  most  notable  quality  appears  in  the  opening  passage  of  the 
volume.  The  sharply  etched  tones  and  contours  of  this  picture  are 
characteristic  of  the  author's  work.  ...  In  '  unrhymed  cadence ' 
Miss  Lowell's  cadences  are  sometimes  extremely  delicate,  as  in  '  The 
Captured  Goddess.'" — Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  Chicago  Dial. 


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A  Dome  of  Many-Coloured  Glass 

By  amy  LOWELL 


Fifth  edition,  $i.6o 

"These  poems  arouse  interest,  and  justify  it  by  the  result.  Miss  Lowell 
is  the  sister  of  President  Lowell  of  Harvard.  Her  art,  however,  needs  no 
reflection  from  such  distinguished  influence  to  make  apparent  its  distinc- 
tion. Such  verse  as  this  is  delightful,  has  a  sort  of  personal  flavour,  a 
loyalty  to  the  fundamentals  of  life  and  nationality.  .  .  .  The  child  poems 
are  particularly  graceful."  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  Boston,  Mass. 

"  Miss  Lowell  has  given  expression  in  exquisite  form  to  many  beautiful 
thoughts,  inspired  by  a  variety  of  subjects  and  based  on  some  of  the  lofti- 
est ideals.  ,  .  . 

"  The  verses  are  grouped  under  the  captions  '  Lyrical  Poems,'  *  Sonnets,' 
and  '  Verses  for  Children.'  .  .  . 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say  which  of  these  are  the  most  successful.  Indeed, 
all  reveal  Miss  Lowell's  powers  of  observation  from  the  view-point  of  a 
lover  of  nature.  Moreover,  Miss  Lowell  writes  with  a  gentle  philosophy 
and  a  deep  knowledge  of  humanity.  .  .  . 

"  The  sonnets  are  especially  appealing  and  touch  the  heart  strings  so 
tenderly  that  there  comes  immediate  response  in  the  same  spirit.  .  .  . 

"That  she  knows  the  workings  of  the  juvenile  mind  is  plainly  indicated 
by  her  verses  written  for  their  reading."  —  Boston  Sunday  Globe,  Boston, 
Mass. 

"  A  quite  delightful  little  collection  of  verses."  —  Toronto  Globe,  Toronto, 
Canada. 

"The  Lyrics  are  true  to  the  old  definition;  they  would  sing  well  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  strings.  We  should  like  to  hear  •  Hora  Stellatrix ' 
rendered  by  an  artist."  —  Hartford  Courant,  Hartford,  Conn. 

"  Verses  that  show  delicate  appreciation  of  the  beautiful,  and  imagina- 
tive quality.  A  sonnet  entitled  *  Dreams '  is  peculiarly  full  of  sympathy 
and  feeling."  —  The  Sun,  Baltimore,  Md. 


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Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry 

By  amy  LOWELL 

Third  edition,  illustrated,  $3.00 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  insisting  that  Miss  Amy  Lowell's  '  Tendencies  in 
Modern  American  Poetry '  is  one  of  the  most  striking  volumes  of  criticism 
that  has  appeared  in  recent  years."  —  CLEMENT  K.  SHORTER  in  TAe  Sphere, 
London. 

"  In  her  recent  volume,  '  Tendencies  in  Modern  American  Poetry,'  Miss 
Lowell  employs  this  method  (the  historical)  with  excellent  results.  .  .  .  We 
feel  throughout  a  spirit  of  mingled  courage,  kindness,  and  independence  illumi- 
nating the  subject,  and  the  result  is  the  note  of  personality  that  is  so  priceless 
in  criticism,  yet  which,  unhoneyed  on  the  one  hand  or  uncrabbed  on  the  other, 
is  so  hard  to  come  by  .  .  .  her  latest  book  leaves  with  the  reader  a  strong 
impression  of  the  most  simple  and  unaffected  integrity."  —  HELEN  BULLIS 
KiZER  in  The  North  American  Review. 

"A  new  criticism  has  to  be  created  to  meet  not  only  the  work  of  the  new 
artists  but  also  the  uncritical  hospitality  of  current  taste.  .  .  .  That  is  why  a 
study  such  as  Miss  Amy  Lowell's  on  recent  tendencies  in  American  verse  is  so 
significant.  .  .  .  Her  very  tone  is  revolutionary.  .  .  .  Poetry  appears  for  the 
first  time  on  our  critical  horizon  ...  as  a  sound  and  important  activity  of  con- 
temporary American  life."  —  RANDOLPH  BOURNE  in  The  Dial. 


"  Its   real  worth   as  criticism   and   its  greater   worth  as  testimony  are  in- 
valuable."—  O.  W.  Firkins  in  The  Nation. 


"  The  feeling  she  has  for  poetry  is  so  genuine  and  catholic  and  instructed, 
and  her  acquaintance  with  modern  activity  so  energetic,  that  she  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  illuminating  persons  with  whom  to  visit  the  new  poets, 
led  by  the  hand."  —  New  Republic. 


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Six  French  Poets 

STUDIES   IN   CONTEMPORARY   LITERATURE 

By  amy  LOWELL 

Third  edition,  illustrated,  $3.00 

A  brilliant  series  of  biographical  and  critical  essays  dealing  with  Emile  Ver- 
haeren,  Albert  Samain,  Remy  de  Gourmont,  Henri  de  R6gnier,  Francis  Jammes, 
and  Paul  Fort,  by  one  of  the  foremost  living  American  poets.  The  translations 
make  up  an  important  part  of  the  book,  and  together  with  the  French  originals 
constitute  a  representative  anthology  of  the  poetry  of  the  period. 

William  Lyon  Phelps,  Professor  of  English  Literature,  Yale  University, 
says: 

"  This  is,  I  think,  the  most  valuable  work  on  contemporary  French  literature 
that  I  have  seen  for  a  long  time.  It  is  written  by  one  who  has  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  subject  and  who  is  herself  an  American  poet  of  distinction. 
She  has  the  knowledge,  the  sympathy,  the  penetration,  and  the  insight  — all 
necessary  to  make  a  notable  book  of  criticism.  It  is  a  work  that  should  be 
widely  read  in  America." 

"  In  her  '  Six  French  Poets  '  I  find  a  stimulating  quality  of  a  high  order.  .  .  . 
I  defy  any  English  critic  to  rise  from  this  book  without  the  feehng  that  he  has 
gained  considerably.  This  is  the  first  volume  in  English  to  contain  a  minute 
and  careful  study  of  these  French  writers."  — Clk.MENT  K.  SHORTER  in  TAe 
Sphere,  London. 

"  I  can  conceive  of  no  greater  pleasure  than  that  of  a  lover  of  poetry  who 
reads  in  Miss  Lowell's  book  about  modern  French  poetry  for  the  first  time ;  it 
must  be  like  falling  into  El  Dorado."  —  F.  S.  FLINT,  formerly  French  critic  of 
Poetry  and  Drama,  London,  in  The  Little  Review. 

"  Amy  Lowell's  '  French  Poets  '  .  .  .  ought  to  be  labelled  like  Pater's  studies 
'  Appreciations,'  so  full  of  charm  are  its  penetrative  interpretations  .  .  .  and  it 
is  not  too  bold  to  say  that  her  introductions  to  and  interpretations  of  French 
poets  will  live  as  long  as  interest  in  these  pot  ts  themselves  lives.  Her  book  is 
a  living  and  lasting  piece  of  criticism  ...  a  masterly  volume."  —  New  York 
Sun. 

"  A  very  admirable  piece  of  work."  —  TAe  London  Bookman. 

"  Une  trds  interessante  6tude."  —  La  France. 

"  An  excellent  book."  —  EMILE  Cammaerts  in    Tke  Athenceum,  London. 

"  Miss  Lowell  has  done  a  real  service  to  literature.  One  must  be  limited, 
indeed,  who  fails  to  appreciate  the  power  of  these  writers  as  set  forth  through 
the  comment,  the  discriminating  extracts,  and  the  appended  prose  translations 
in  her  book."  —  North  American  Review. 


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